FACES  IN  THE  DAWN 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS  •    ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY   •   CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA.  LID. 

TORONTO 


FACES  IN  THE 
DAWN 


BY 

HERMANN  HAGEDORN 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1914. 
Reprinted  January,    1915. 


Meinem  lieben  Vatting 

in  dankbarer  Erinnerung  an  schone,  vergangene  Weihnachten 

ist  diese  Erzahlung  der  alien  und  neuen  Welt 

in  treuer  Liebe 

gewidmet 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     In  Which  an  Ogre  Loses  His  Temper     .     .       i 

II.     In  Which  Appears  a  One-time  Saint  Teresa 

with  a  Young  Man  from  Westoversea     .     24 

III.  In   Which   a   Baron's   Daughter    Shows   the 

Ogre's  Wife  How  to  Wash  Dishes     .     .     45 

IV.  In  Which  a  Dream  Comes  to  Life  and  Proves 

Disturbing 65 

V.     In  Which  the  Ogre  Opens  His  Sacred  Archives  85 

VI.  In  Which  a  Melancholy  Personage  Enters  the 
Story  and  Leaves  It  Again  (Temporar 
ily)  Because  of  a  Headache  ....  95 

VII.     In  Which  the  Ogre  Finds  That  Something 

Has  Happened  to  His  Spectacles         .     .113 

VIII.     In  Which  Many  Candles  Are  Lighted  on  a 

Christmas  Tree,   and  Elsewhere     .     .     .123 

IX.  In  Which  a  Dream-come-to-life  Meets  the 
Ogre  at  a  Crossroads  and  Points  Him  the 
Way 153 

X.     In  Which  the  Ogre  Regards  Himself  in  the 

Looking-glass        170 

XL  In  Which  the  Melancholy  Personage  Buckles 
on  Her  Broadsword  and  Goes  to  Battle, 
to  the  Discomfiture  of  Everybody  .  .  .180 

XII.     In  Which  the  Ogre  Barely  Escapes  Devour 
ing  His  Own  Child  and  Becomes  Properly 

Humble  Forthwith 204 

vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  In  Which  the  Ogre  Forgets  Himself  and  Ac 

quires  Merit 225 

XIV.  In  Which  Four  Friends  Fear  for  Their  China- 

ware       234 

XV.  In  Which  the  Ogre's  Wife  Wins  Strength 
from  the  Everlasting  Arms  and  Delves  in 
the  Archives 249 

XVI.  In  Which  the  Melancholy  Personage  Makes  a 
Disconcerting  Discovery  and  a  Conscien 
tious  Amazon  a  Promise 273 

XVII.     In  Which  a  Drunkard's  Whistle  Raises  the 

Devil,  Lays  a  Ghost  and  Ends  a  Rebellion  279 

XVIII.     In  Which,  as  in  All  Good  Romances,  There 

Is  Marrying  and  Giving  in  Marriage     .  307 


FACES  IN  THE  DAWN 


FACES  IN  THE  DAWN 
CHAPTER   I 

IN  WHICH  AN  OGRE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 

ADAM  SAMUELS,  pastor  in  Wenkendorf ,  laid  down 
his  pen  with  a  deep  sigh  that  spelt  somewhat  ex 
haustion,  somewhat  relief  and  very  largely  self-pity; 
and,  picking  up  the  mass  of  closely  written  sheets, 
read  over  his  sermon.  It  evidently  neither  pleased 
nor  displeased  him.  It  was  the  customary  disser 
tation  on  the  birth  of  Christ  which  he  had  delivered, 
with  negligible  changes,  Christmas  after  Christmas 
for  ten  years,  a  not  very  learned  examination  of 
Isaiah  and  the  other  Prophets,  Major  and  Minor, 
for  intimations  of  the  Saviour.  There  were  quota 
tions  by  the  dozen,  which  his  congregation,  know 
ing  nothing  of  concordances,  always  looked  upon  as 
evidences  of  incredible  erudition,  and  rolling  out 
bursts  here  and  there  which  sounded  impressive, 
but  unfortunately  meant  nothing  at  all.  The  pastor 
read  these  over  twice,  half  aloud,  hypnotized  by 
their  sound,  then  laid  the  sheets  down  with  another 
sigh  and  took  off  his  heavy  spectacles. 

"Esperanza !"  called  the  pastor  of  Wenkendorf. 


m   THE   DAWN 

There  was  no  answer — only  the  whimpering  sob 
of  a  child  in  the  next  room,  drowned  a  second  later 
by  the  clatter  of  dishes;  the  whimper  again,  more 
like  a  cry  this  time ;  silence,  and  a  gust  outside  blow 
ing  the  gritty  snow  against  the  window-panes.  The 
pastor  frowned. 

"Esperanza,  I  called  you  1  Esperanza  !"  he  cried 
again. 

A  boy  of  four,  balancing  himself  on  a  chair  be 
side  him,  failed  to  keep  the  carefully  planned  equi 
librium,  and  came  crashing  to  the  floor.  A  howl 
arose,  a  howl  of  pain  and  indignant  wrath,  that 
started  a  sympathetic  flow  of  tears  from  a  three- 
year-old  in  ambush  under  the  pastor's  writing  table. 
The  pastor  picked  up  the  boy  by  the  collar  of  his 
dirty  dress,  which  turned  the  howl  to  a  wail  of  pierc 
ing  clamor  long  drawn  out,  with  cadences  like  a 
barbaric  chant.  The  girl,  after  a  second's  inter 
ested  pause,  took  up  the  dirge,  hammering  the  floor 
with  a  poker.  The  cry  in  the  kitchen  gained  force. 
From  regions  unknown,  softly,  stealthily,  hypocriti 
cally  disinterested,  entered  the  parsonage  cat  and 
mewed. 

The  pastor  sat  stock-still  a  moment,  darkly  glory 
ing  in  the  attentions  of  an  evil  fate,  and  stoically 
letting  the  babel  eat  like  acid  into  his  soul.  Then, 
with  a  sharp  exclamation,  he  abruptly  rose,  cuffed 
the  howling  children  right  and  left,  and  stalked  to 
ward  the  door.  He  flung  it  open.  A  kitchen  that 
might  have  been  the  original  china  shop  after  the 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  3 

bull's  exit  met  his  glance — a  helter-skelter  place,  all 
pans  and  dishes.  On  tables  and  chairs,  pans;  on 
shelves  and  on  the  floor,  dishes.  In  the  corner,  a 
stove — more  pans;  in  the  opposite  corner,  a  cradle 
— more  dishes.  Some  of  them  were  washed,  but  not 
elaborately;  most  were  grimy  and  brown,  and  on 
some  lay  a  thick  dust  over  the  grease,  as  though  they 
had  waited  vainly  many  weeks  for  soap  and  water. 
Cabbage  was  cooking  on  the  stove,  its  odor  made 
in  no  wise  more  endurable  by  the  fact  that  the  milk 
in  which  it  was  boiling  had  previously  been  scorched. 
The  little  room  was  low-ceilinged,  with  one  win 
dow,  tightly  shut. 

The  pastor  hesitated  on  the  threshold  and  turned 
away,  sickened;  he  scarcely  knew  whether  at  heart 
or  elsewhere.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  a  neat 
home.  Esperanza's  kitchen  was  a  spiritual  torture. 
He  stopped  and  half  turned,  irresolute.  His  wife 
looked  up  from  her  pan  of  dishes  by  the  window. 
"Did  you  call  me,  Adam?"  she  asked  mildly. 

"Call?"  He  hesitated,  considering  whether  he 
should  admonish  her  as  she  deserved.  He  decided 
on  sarcasm.  "Yes,  I  think  I  called."  He  was  going 
to  say  more,  but  the  insistent  chant  in  the  study  rose 
to  new  heights  and  he  suddenly  flung  up  his  hands, 
trembling  with  uncontrolled  rage.  "My  God  in 
heaven  who  sits  among  the  angels !  Those  children ! 
Those  children!" 

"I  will  quiet  them,  Adam,"  said  Esperanza  sooth 
ingly. 


4  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

There  was  no  need  for  her  ministrations,  how 
ever.  The  children  had  been  diverted  from  their 
woes  by  their  father's  violent  outburst,  and  were 
calm  again.  The  pastor,  moreover,  recovering  from 
his  attack  of  temper  as  swiftly  as  his  little  children 
from  their  fears,  growled:  "Never  mind.  I  called 
to  tell  you  the  sermon  was  done.  The  Christmas 
sermon.  I  thought  I  would  read  it  to  you.  It  will 
only  take  an  hour.'* 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  weak  smile  of  con 
sent  which  did  not  deceive  him.  Dishes  were 
hanging  over  the  little  lady  like  a  hesitant  ava 
lanche.  She  wanted  to  plow  her  way  as  far  into 
them  as  she  could  before  the  youngest  of  the  Be 
loved  Three,  quieted  now,  began  to  demand  seri 
ous  attention,  supper  and  bed.  It  had  somehow  be 
come  her  one  ambition  in  life  once  to  get  the  better 
of  the  dishes.  But  it  was,  "Of  course,  Adam,"  that 
she  answered. 

His  eyes  contracted  a  little,  the  hard  lines,  half 
concealed  by  the  heavy  moustache,  hardened. 
"You  have  no  interest.  Never  mind." 

Esperanza  turned  to  him,  slightly  tearful.  The 
little  face  on  the  short,  slender  body  had  been  pretty 
once,  but  now  it  was  pale,  its  prettiness  flattened 
out  by  much  toiling,  and  its  roses  quite  faded  save 
for  a  red  blotch  in  each  cheek  pathetic  as  a  last 
year's  leaf.  Her  eyes  only  held  yet  some  of  their 
doelike  candor  as  they  looked  pleadingly  into  the 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  5 

pastor's  steely  eyes.  "You  know  I  have  interest," 
she  said. 

Adam  turned  back  toward  his  room  with  a  sigh 
meant  to  reproach.  "Never  mind.  Take  away  the 
children/'  The  howls  of  the  two  elder  babes  rose 
anew  at  the  threat  of  exile.  "Take  them  away!  I 
shall  go  crazy  with  them,  I  am  certain  of  it.  But 
you  will  not  care.  Noise,  disorder — my  God — you 
thrive  on  them!" 

She  dragged  the  children,  howling,  along  the  floor 
and  out.  "I'll  try  to  keep  them  quiet,"  she  said 
meekly.  "But  they  are  so  lively."  There  was 
pride  in  her  voice.  She  had  been  lively  herself  not 
many  years  back.  "When  they  are  quiet  I'll  come 
back  and  listen  to  the  sermon,"  she  added  gently. 

Adam's  voice  was  sharp.  "No,  I  have  changed 
my  mind." 

"As  you  wish,  of  course,  Adam."  This  very  con 
tritely. 

Esperanza  went  back  to  her  dishes,  the  pastor  to 
his  desk.  But  five  minutes  later,  he  raised  his 
voice  again,  calling;  and  Esperanza  hurriedly  dried 
her  hands  and  answered  the  imperial  summons. 

Adam,  it  appeared,  had,  as  was  not  unusual  with 
him  (for  he  had  a  shockingly  soft  heart  for  a  man 
of  such  plate-armor  exterior),  Adam,  it  seemed, 
had  repented  his  unbeautiful  explosion;  and,  in  his 
customary  lordly  manner,  which,  of  course,  was  the 
only  manner  which  a  self-respecting  husband  could 


6  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

adopt  toward  his  wife,  had  sent  for  her  to  receive 
his  apology. 

"My  child,  you  must  not  be  angry  with  me,"  he 
said,  in  tones  which  suggested  that  he  was,  pos 
sibly,  more  anxious  to  propitiate  his  conscience  than 
his  wife.  "You  know  that  I  have  much  on  my 
mind." 

Esperanza  laid  her  arm  about  his  neck  gently. 
"I  know,  Adam,"  she  answered  warmly.  "You  do 
not  mean  to  be  unkind." 

But  Adam,  for  all  his  elaborate  apologizing,  did 
not  enjoy  being  forgiven  by  his  meek  little  wife.  To 
ask  forgiveness  was  one  thing.  That  salved  his 
conscience  as  a  pastor.  To  be  forgiven,  with  the 
implication  of  at  least  temporary  superiority  in  the 
magnanimous  party  that  forgave,  was  an  entirely 
different  matter,  and  did  not  fit  into  Adam's  theory 
concerning  the  relation  of  the  sexes.  According  to 
that  theory,  Esperanza  should  have  embraced  Adam 
fervidly,  crying,  with  tears  of  simple  devotion,  that 
the  fault  was  really  hers,  and  that  it  was  really  she 
who  should  ask  pardon.  Whereupon,  Adam  would 
gently  soothe  her,  not  denying  her  statement,  and 
ultimately  end  the  interview  to  the  deep  satisfac 
tion  of  both  by  charitably  forgiving  her  for  his 
offense. 

The  pastor  frowned.  He  had  meant  to  be  un 
kind,  he  had  meant  to  be  as  cutting  as  possible,  and 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  if  he  saw 
fit.  Esperanza  should  not  have  taken  advantage 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  7 

of  what  was  merely  a  diplomatic  remark  meant  to 
ease  his  conscience  and  certain  strained  relations  be 
tween  the  kitchen  and  the  study. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  murmured  grumblingly,  "but  please 
do  not  interrupt  me  again." 

Esperanza  did  not  ask  her  husband  in  wrath  who 
had  been  the  one  to  interrupt  whom.  She  fell  meek 
ly  into  the  trap  as  she  had  fallen  into  similar  traps 
for  five  years  past,  and  said,  much  perturbed,  "Oh,  I 
am  so  sorry.  Forgive";  and  made  for  the  door. 
But  Adam's  voice  recalled  her  once  more. 

"Have  they  sent  us  our  Christmas  box  from  the 
Manor-house  yet?"  he  asked.  It  was  a  bootless 
question  to  put,  and  he  put  it  only  because  he  was 
irritated,  and  it  was  the  habit  of  his  irritation,  when 
thoroughly  roused,  to  fare  north  and  south  in  search 
of  fresh  woes  to  feed  on.  For  he  knew  perfectly 
well  that  the  Christmas  box  had  not  arrived.  If  it 
had  there  would  have  been  jubilations,  and  jubila 
tions,  I  need  not  point  out,  there  were  none  in  the 
parsonage  at  this  moment. 

Esperanza,  standing  in  the  doorway,  shook  her 
head,  casting  about  her  eyes  in  a  timid  way  that 
sometimes  comes  with  tired  youth.  "No,  Adam," 
she  said,  adding  quickly  as  she  saw  the  storm  sweep 
ing  up  over  his  face,  "but  it  is  only  the  twenty- 
third." 

"So?"  There  was  long-drawn  wrath  in  the  little 
monosyllable.  "Twenty-third  or  twenty-fifth!  Do 
you  think  for  a  single  instant  that  they  will  send  it? 


8  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

They  did  not  send  it  last  year.  We  will  live  with 
out  it,  too." 

Esperanza's  clear  blue  eyes  grew  brave  for  the 
sake  of  the  Manor-folk,  as  they  never  thought  it 
proper  for  them  to  grow  brave  for  herself.  "But, 
Adam,  you  are  unjust."  She  hesitated,  for  her  lord 
and  master  was  frowning  at  her  temerity.  "Excuse 
me — don't  you  think  you  are  a  little  unjust?  They 
have  been  away  so  much,  the  Manor-folk.  The 
Baron  and  the  young  lady  only  came  back  from 
America  this  week.  And,  you  know,  the  Baroness 
is  so  pious  she  hasn't  time  to  think  of  such  worldly 
things."  There  was  no  hint  of  irony  in  the  warmth 
of  her  childlike  voice. 

"And  last  year?"  thundered  the  pastor. 

"You  know  they  were  in  Italy  last  year.  And  the 
Baroness  told  me  when  they  came  home  that  she 
nearly  discharged  the  overseer  for  forgetting  to  send 
us  a  box.  You  remember." 

"Yes,"  remarked  Adam  icily.  "But  she  didn't 
discharge  him.  And  I  remember  she  said  she  would 
send  a  box  at  once.  And  she  forgot." 

"She  has  so  much  to  think  of." 

"Bah!"  snorted  the  pastor.  "Herself!"  He 
passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes  and  through  his  hair 
with  a  gesture  of  bitter  finality.  "So  we  live  and 
starve,  serving  God  in  a  godless  world!"  Abruptly 
he  rose,  and,  leaning  over,  shook  his  sermon  in  his 
wife's  face.  "I  have  my  Christmas  sermon  writ- 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  9 

ten,  but  do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  with 

it?11 

"Why,  Adam "  she  cried,  a  little  frightened. 

His  cheeks  looked  suddenly  cadaverous,  his  lips 
gray. 

He  tore  the  manuscript  sharply  across  and  across 
again. 

"Adam!"  she  cried. 

"It  is  too  mild  and  sweet,"  he  exclaimed.  "The 
pious  old  fraud  and  her  husband  shall  not  have  a 
comfortable  hour  in  church  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Oh,"  she  cried  in  meek  protest.  "But  it  is 
Christmas." 

His  voice  was  harsh  and  his  face  red  with  anger. 
"I  know  what  is  proper!  You  take  their  side,  of 
course.  You  always  do.  You  take  everybody's  side 
against  me." 

"Adam !"     This  with  tears. 

"Oh,  stop !  Stop  it !  Christmas  day  I  preach  on 
perdition  and  the  end  of  all  things.  I'll  stoke  hell- 
fire  for  them!"  He  had  a  good  voice  and  there 
were  the  distant  rumblings  of  damnation  in  it  as  he 
flung  out  the  words. 

"I  am  sorry.  It  will  be  their  first  service  since 
their  return.  And  Fraulein  Gudrun  has  always  been 
kind." 

The  pastor's  head  fell  a  little  and  the  angry  flush 
faded,  leaving  his  cheeks  and  brow  pallid  again.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  bustled  about  among  his  papers 
instead,  finally  sitting  down  heavily  in  the  chair  be- 


io  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

fore  his  desk.  He  was  evidently  moved,  though  for 
what  reason  Esperanza  could  not  imagine.  At  last 
he  said  quietly:  "Why  do  you  speak  of  Fraulein 
Gudrun?" 

Esperanza  could  only  repeat  her  previous  re 
mark.  uShe  has  always  been  kind." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  said.  "She  is  good."  The 
baby  was  whimpering  again  in  the  kitchen.  "Quiet 
the  child,"  he  commanded  wearily. 

Esperanza  hurried  out,  closing  the  door  gently 
behind  her.  Her  heart  was  heavy  for  her  good  man. 
She  knew,  as  though  she  were  watching  him  with 
her  eyes,  that  he  was  leaning  his  head  on  his  hands 
now,  staring  over  the  disorderly  desk,  over  the  piled- 
up  books  and  papers  stonily  out  into  the  wintry  land 
scape.  She  knew  that  when  these  fits  of  depression 
were  on  him  he  was  as  though  in  an  iron  cell  that 
no  outside  force  could  invade.  It  gave  her  a  pang 
to  think  how  lonely  he  must  be  in  that  cell  with  noth 
ing  but  his  own  angers  and  despairs  talking  to  him 
from  the  hard  walls.  The  thought  came  to  her 
that  perhaps  it  was  she  who  had  built  him  that  cell. 
But  the  fear  died,  not  because  she  could  confute  it, 
but  because  the  baby  needed  her. 

The  dingy  kitchen,  the  unwashed  dishes  and  pans, 
and  the  smell  of  the  cabbage  cooking  in  scorched  milk 
did  not  affect  Esperanza  as  they  had  affected  her 
husband.  Five  years  ago  the  parsonage  kitchen 
had  become  her  world.  She  was  not  a  rebel  by  na 
ture  (rebellion  sounded  of  Beelzebub  and  the  fallen 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  n 

angels)  and  her  bringing  up  in  the  little  northern 
town  still  smug  with  old  laws  and  old  customs  had 
led  her  to  be  grateful  even  for  the  little  she  had. 
She  had  jumped  at  Adam,  when  he  unexpectedly 
marched  in  at  her  father's  front  door  one  noonday, 
in  his  best  pastoral  black,  and  rather  gloomily  and 
unenthusiastically  proposed  to  her;  and  she  had  told 
herself  since,  times  over,  that  if  she  had  the  chance 
to  jump  at  him  again,  knowing  now  what  that  jump 
signified,  jump  she  would.  For  when  at  long  inter 
vals  a  feeble  protest  spoke  in  her  she  quieted  it  by 
remembering  that  it  is  the  wife's  place  to  bear  and 
obey,  and  gratefully  realizing  that  if  she  had  re 
mained  single  she  would  have  not  even  a  kitchen. 
She  would  be  cooking  everybody's  cabbage  but  her 
own  and  minding  everybody's  children.  Besides,  she 
had  loved  Adam,  loved  him  with  the  gushing 
Schwarmerei  of  seventeen  for  thirty-four,  loved  him 
very  intensely  indeed,  the  first  six  weeks  of  their 
engagement,  and  she  loved  him  yet  (somewhat  as 
she  loved  her  uncles)  when  she  had  time  to  think 
about  it. 

The  baby  needed  expert  attention.  Esperanza — 
how  the  guests  at  the  wedding  had  jested  on  that 
name,  pointing  out  with  bibulous  elaboration  how 
very  hopeful  was  the  outlook  for  a  large  brood 
where  the  very  name  of  the  future  mother  signified 
hope — Esperanza,  cooing  and  making  sweet,  mean 
ingless  words,  soothed  his  fretting  heart,  put  into 
his  hands  a  cup  decorated  with  flowers  and  a  motto : 


12  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

Guten  Appetit! — and  attacked  her  dishes  once  more. 
Had  Adam  stepped  on  the  threshold  then  he  might 
have  forgotten  damnation  and  the  end  of  all  things 
for  a  moment  in  the  pathos  of  that  slender  dun  figure 
washing  dishes.  She  was  always  washing  dishes,  he 
would  have  remembered,  and  she  was  always  being 
interrupted  and  she  was  never  through.  Five  years 
ago,  when  she  had  come  to  the  parsonage,  sandy- 
haired,  red-cheeked  and  monstrously  proud  of  her 
self  for  being  married,  she  had  let  her  house-clean 
ing  go  for  a  day,  and  somehow  she  had  never  caught 
up.  And  then  the  babies.  Their  coming  had  set 
her  back.  Probably  there  would  be  some  unwashed 
dishes  in  the  kitchen  till  she  died.  This  possibility 
did  not  worry  her  vastly.  She  told  herself  that  she 
was  doing  her  best,  angels  could  do  no  more.  And 
if  she  were  less  pretty  than  she  had  been,  that  was 
too  bad,  but  did  not  matter  much.  For — Gott  sei 
Lob  und  Dank! — she  was  married.  Her  looks  had 
held  out  long  enough  to  achieve  the  one  victory 
society  absolutely  required  of  her;  and  now  that  the 
victory  was  won  they  might  rest  in  peace.  And 
piously  she  remembered  that  the  Lord  regards 
beauty  of  soul  far  above  the  loveliness  of  the  body. 
Esperanza  left  her  dishes  abruptly,  wiped  her 
hands  on  a  greasy  towel,  and  started  to  peel  the 
potatoes  for  supper.  A  moment  she  listened  for 
the  scratch  of  Adam's  pen  in  the  adjoining  room  or 
for  the  rumble  of  sonorous  sentences,  for  Adam  had 
a  way  of  composing  aloud.  There  was  no  sound. 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  13 

He  was  still  in  his  iron  cell,  she  mused  with  a  sigh. 

The  little  lady  of  the  parsonage  was  right  and  at 
the  same  time  wrong.  Adam  was  certainly  not  indit 
ing  a  fresh  Christmas  sermon,  but  Esperanza's  men 
tion  of  Gudrun  von  Hallern  had  unbolted  the  barred 
door  with  which  his  despairs  were  wont  to  keep  him 
a  brooding  prisoner,  and  had  sent  his  thoughts  rang 
ing  over  green  pastures  and  beside  still  waters.  He 
had  not  seen  Gudrun  von  Hallern  for  a  year  now, 
not  since  her  departure  with  her  lovable,  unhappy 
old  father,  the  Baron,  for  America.  He  had  won 
dered  whether  the  year  would  ever  pass,  and,  when 
it  had  passed,  whether  Gudrun  would  really  come 
back.  She  had  come  back,  though  Adam  had  not 
seen  her;  but  rumor  said  that  the  young  American 
who  had  driven  up  in  the  coach  with  the  Manor 
party  from  Hiinenfeld  would  soon  carry  her  off 
again.  The  thought  held  no  resentment,  only  a  deep 
pain.  She  had  been  so  vital  a  part  of  his  life  for 
ten  years — dear  Lord!  ten  years! — how  they  had 
flown !  It  occurred  to  him  that  five  thousand  miles 
away  she  could  and  would  be  no  farther  from  him 
than  she  had  been  in  the  Manor-house,  and  his  love 
found  consolation  there,  not  unmixed  with  bitter 
ness.  He  had  seen  little  enough  of  her  the  past 
seven  years — here  and  there  a  glimpse  as  she  gal 
loped  through  the  narrow  lanes  of  her  father's 
woods  or  down  the  highway  to  Hunenfeld;  and  now 
and  then  a  word  as  they  met  by  a  sick-bed  in  the 


H  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

parish.  She  had  never  suspected,  and  never  would 
suspect,  that  she  was  the  gold  thread  twisted  for 
good  or  ill,  but  twisted  eternally,  it  would  seem,  with 
the  brown  and  gray  and  black  threads  of  Adam's 
life.  His  love  was  his  soul's  one  invaluable  treas 
ure,  which  he  cherished,  miser-fashion,  all  the  more 
because  no  one  but  himself  knew  how  he  descended 
his  cellar  stairs  on  lonely  midnights  and  clinked  the 
coins. 

He  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  under  his  hand  and 
tried  to  write,  but  his  thoughts  would  not  be  bound 
to  theology.  They  flew  back  down  the  years  to  the 
time  he  had  first  come  to  Wenkendorf,  humiliated 
and  ashamed  with  failure.  His  spirit  had  seemed 
withered  grass  ready  for  the  oven,  and  he  had  gone 
about  his  work  with  no  gleam  of  enthusiasm  or  love 
for  the  peasant-folk  he  was  to  teach  and  exhort  and 
lead  in  godly  ways.  Then  he  remembered  how  one 
day  a  girl  of  twelve  in  a  battered  red  felt  hat  had 
come  to  the  parsonage  with  a  basket  of  cherries. 
Life,  that  day,  took  on  a  sudden  glow  that  cooled 
somewhat  in  lonely,  later  years;  but  even  now  he 
felt  a  remnant  of  the  old  warmth,  and  he  knew,  even 
through  his  bitterness,  that  that  remnant  would 
never  wholly  depart.  He  recalled  winters  passing 
into  springs,  springs  into  summers,  summers  into 
autumns,  and  the  dancing  figure  a  radiant  part  of 
each,  as  Gudrun  unfolded  into  thirteen  and  four 
teen  and  fifteen  and  needed  to  be  confirmed.  Then 
began  his  golden  time,  the  half  year  he  set  apart  in 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  15 

a  precious  cabinet  from  all  other  half  years  and 
years  of  his  life;  for  twice  a  week  now  he  went  to 
the  Manor-house  and  taught  the  little  girl  her  cate 
chism.  What  a  wonderful  pupil  she  had  been,  so 
quick,  so  eager,  so  devout.  He  could  see  even  now 
the  dark  bright  eyes,  troubled  at  intervals  by  the 
disharmony  of  her  father's  house,  but  not  yet  sad 
dened  by  the  loneliness  that  was  to  come.  The 
rankling  shame  that  had  been  all  that  his  Silesian 
pastorate  had  left  to  him  had  dwindled,  as  all  things 
that  were  born  of  the  depths  naturally  seemed  to 
dwindle  and  expire  in  the  presence  of  this  restless 
gleam  of  sunlight,  this  warm  being  all  tenderness 
and  fancy,  who  was  half  a  wood-sprite  (with  her 
touch  of  wood-magic  and  wood-deviltry)  and  half  a 
childish  Saint  Teresa.  Adam  recalled  how  the  ar 
rogance  of  his  youth,  broken  with  the  humiliation 
of  his  fiasco  at  Stromau,  had  died  in  the  light  of 
Gudrun's  candid  eyes,  and  a  new,  inspiring  humil 
ity  had  been  born.  He  had  seen  from  the  start  the 
chasm  that  separated  him  from  this  child  of  an 
other  birth,  but  it  was  with  a  heart  uplifted  rather 
than  resentful  that  he  had  watched  the  chasm  widen 
as  his  devotion  grew.  And  now,  gazing  down  the 
years,  he  knew  that  he  had  never  been  closer  to  God 
than  on  that  warm  Palm  Sunday  in  April  when  he 
had  confirmed  her. 

The  pastor,  sighing  deeply,  dipped  his  pen  in  the 
ink-pot  and  wrote  the  word :  Text.  Then  he  groped 
among  the  scattered  books  on  the  table  for  his 


16  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

Bible  and  turned  to  his  old  standby,  Isaiah,  for  a 
thunderous  verse.  But  the  leaves,  slipping  through 
his  fingers,  ran  back  into  Solomon's  Song  of  Songs. 

"Turn  away  thine  eyes  from  me,  for  they  have 
overcome  me,"  he  read. 

And  once  more  his  thoughts  fled  from  theology 
into  the  ancient  hills. 

There  was  a  crash  of  broken  china  in  the  kitchen; 
and  a  wail,  that  had  no  place  in  the  secret  hill-roads 
his  mind  was  traversing,  rose  up  and  gathered 
strength.  Adarn  stalked  to  the  door  with  a  snort  of 
fury.  As  the  pastor  once  more  filled  the  opening 
with  his  black  bulky  frame,  Esperanza  cowered  in 
voluntarily  as  if  the  genie  had  popped  out  of  the 
bottle  and  was  making  a  move  to  devour  her,  pans, 
dishes,  kitchen  stove,  babies  and  all. 

He  spoke  with  suspicious  softness.  "Esperanza," 
he  said  with  a  reproachful  resignation  that  was  a 
bit  comical  coming  from  those  stern  lips  behind  that 
ogre's  mustache,  "did  something  break?" 

"Yes,  Adam."  Oh,  very  far  away  was  her  voice, 
as  if  a  great  wind  were  blowing  and  carrying  it  over 
the  downs  to  sea. 

"What  was  it?" 

Frightened,  she  answered:   "Your  cup." 

"The  one — the  one  I  asked  you  always  to  be  very 
careful  with?" 

"Yes,  Adam." 

There  was  a  pause.    The  child,  left  to  itself,  had 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  17 

stopped  crying  and  was  looking  up  with  bland  de 
light  at  the  sudden  excitement.  But  Esperanza 
knew  those  pauses.  In  her  far-away  voice  she  said, 
"I'm  sorry,  Adam." 

"Sorry?  Any  child  can  say  that."  Oh,  there 
was  sarcasm  in  those  tones.  uYou  might  have  been 
sorry  before  it  happened  and  given  your  child  some 
thing  else  to  play  with."  Another  pause;  then  with 
a  bit  of  the  pulpit  thunder  Esperanza  had  always 
admired  so  much:  "What  am  I  to  drink  out  of 
now?" 

The  question  was  a  poser.  There  were  the  ordi 
nary  coffee  cups  and  there  were  the  tea  cups,  dozens 
of  them,  unwashed,  about  the  room;  but  Esperanza 
knew  how  Adam  scorned  these  "thimbles,"  as  he 
called  them.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said  helplessly. 
"There's  a  goblet " 

The  pastor  slammed  the  door,  so  that  the  house 
shook  with  the  slam.  Esperanza  had  no  nerves  to 
speak  of,  but  she  shuddered  by  a  sort  of  reflex  action 
and  sighed  a  little  tearfully  as  she  passed  the  half- 
peeled  potatoes  on  the  table  without  a  gleam  of 
recognition  and  took  to  her  dishes  once  more. 

In  the  adjoining  room  the  pastor's  anger  at  his 
violent  recall  from  Elysium  had  somewhat  cooled. 
The  slamming  of  the  door  had  brought  a  manner 
of  relief.  A  slammed  door  was  to  him  the  final, 
unanswerable  argument.  The  very  bigness  of  the 
noise  meant  power,  and  the  sense  that  it  symbolized 
the  greatness  of  his  wrongs  and  would  be  ringing 


1 8  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

in  Esperanza's  ears  even  after  he  and  the  spoken 
words  had  gone  supported  his  theory  of  its  polemi 
cal  value.  He  subconsciously  enjoyed  a  real  row, 
moreover;  he  enjoyed  his  wife's  discomfiture,  since 
she  was  responsible  for  so  much  discomfort  of  his 
own,  he  enjoyed  supremely  his  own  despairing 
wrath;  and  often  when  a  row  threatened  to  peter 
out  he  would  feel  subtly  impelled  to  inject  fresh 
oxygen. 

The  slamming  of  the  door  was,  in  the  code  of  the 
parsonage,  the  formal  declaration  that  arbitration 
had  failed,  that  the  ambassadors  had  been  given 
their  passports  and  that  real  hostilities  were  about 
to  commence.  But  it  symbolized  even  more.  To 
the  little  washed-out  heart  in  the  kitchen,  as  to  the 
stronger,  tyrannical  heart  in  the  study,  it  symbol 
ized  isolation.  Esperanza  accepted  it  as  she  ac 
cepted  everything  else,  with  the  meek  subjection  of 
the  slave-girl  who  is  grateful  for  a  roof  and  crumbs 
and  the  occasional  tempestuous  affection  of  her  lord 
and  master.  Centuries  of  grandmothers  and  great- 
great-grandmothers  who  honored  and  obeyed  where 
they  did  not  always  cherish  had  pitched  her  into  the 
world  with  little  will  of  her  own  and  that  little  pli 
able  enough  in  despotic  hands.  Dimly  she  recog 
nized  that  three  virtues  were  demanded  of  her, 
prettiness  of  body,  compliance  of  will,  resignation 
of  heart.  The  first  had  been  a  gift  from  birth  and 
she  had  spent  it  loyally  in  her  man's  service;  the 
second  she  had  acquired  in  the  first  month  of  mar- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  19 

riage;  the  third,  which  was  the  greatest  of  all,  for 
it  was  the  essence  of  each  and  beat  like  the  inces 
sant  sound  of  the  sea  through  everything  she  had 
ever  heard  or  considered  about  her  sex,  the  third, 
which  was  resignation,  she  was  now  acquiring,  and 
would  later  sanctify  with  prayerbook  reading  and 
psalms  when  the  children  grew  up  and  left  her  time 
for  such  things.  Esperanza,  then,  accepted  isola 
tion  with  what  is  known  as  pious  meekness.  Adam, 
however,  accepted  it  with  a  certain  grim  welcome. 
He  liked  to  feel  his  power  over  even  so  slight  a 
child  as  Esperanza,  and  he  liked  very  much  to  feel 
the  glow  of  righteous  indignation  that  was  suffusing 
him  at  this  moment  as  he  stood  behind  the  slammed 
door  and  thought  how  very  badly  he  was  treated. 
Adam  was  very  sorry  for  himself.  He  was  surer 
of  that  than  he  was  of  the  Apostles'  Creed  or  ulti 
mate  damnation. 

For  Adam,  ever  since  he  had  come  to  Wenken- 
dorf,  had  virtually  (though,  be  it  said,  also  vir 
tuously)  led  a  double  life;  and  it  had  never  occurred 
to  him  that  the  parallel  existences  should  be,  or  even 
that  they  might  be,  coordinated.  One  life,  the 
nobler,  contained  Gudrun  and  little  else;  the  other 
contained  the  parish  and  the  parsonage,  which  means 
that  it  included  the  whole  world  which  in  these  lat 
ter  days  he  knew.  For  a  brief  time  during  the  Gol 
den  Six  Months  when  Gudrun  was  his  pupil,  and  for 
a  year  or  so  after,  his  love  for  her  had  indeed  stirred 
him  to  new  zest  in  his  parish  work.  He  had  studied; 


20  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

and  he  had  preached  better  than  ever  before.  Gud- 
run  filled  his  soul  and  seemed  to  pass  like  a  saving 
wine  into  all  his  activities.  Gradually,  however,  as 
the  Saint  Teresa  of  fifteen  had  grown  into  the  tom 
boy  of  sixteen  and  the  shy,  perplexed,  uncertainly 
waiting  girl  of  seventeen,  the  inspiration  had  waned. 
Adam  had  felt  a  vague  disappointment  as  from  a 
distance  he  observed  the  subtle  change  in  her,  the 
gradual  turn  to  fine  clothes  and  the  attentions  of 
young  men.  She  rode  dashingly  through  the  woods 
as  before,  but  oftener  than  not  there  was  some 
lieutenant  from  the  garrison  at  Hiinenfeld  at  her 
side,  and  as  they  rode  past  him  he  occasionally 
caught  some  piece  of  arrant  nonsense  from  herself 
or  her  companion  that  sounded  harshly  in  his  ears. 
After  such  a  meeting  he  would  often  moon  for 
hours  over  a  single  reverberation  in  his  next  Sun 
day's  thunder,  trying  to  recapture  a  dream;  and  the 
ungodly  would  find  him  rather  more  Mosaic  than 
was  comfortable.  From  this  period  dated  the  birth 
of  a  manner  of  dream-existence  running  parallel 
with  his  everyday  life.  The  actual  Gudrun  had  dis 
appointed  him;  therefore  he  recreated  the  little 
Saint  Teresa  figure  and  set  her  on  a  secure  pedestal 
in  his  innermost  self,  where,  when  occasion  offered, 
he  tenderly  worshiped.  It  was  not  a  thoroughly 
living  being  that  he  enshrined  thus;  he  had  too  little 
imagination.  It  was  merely  a  beautiful,  shadowy 
memory,  never  potent  to  upstir  him  as  the  real 
Gudrun  had  done.  On  the  contrary,  his  love  for 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  21 

the  dream-figure  was  directly  responsible  for  much 
of  his  irritability  and  violence  of  temper;  for  he  set 
this  love  in  a  niche  apart  from  the  rest  of  exist 
ence  and  resented  the  strident  contrasts  to  it  that 
life  brought.  And  often  he  was  most  unbearable 
when  he  had  been  closest  to  what  to  him  was  holi 
ness. 

The  sound  of  the  slammed  door  was  still  tingling, 
not  uncomfortably,  in  Adam's  ears  when  he  seated 
himself  at  his  desk  again,  prepared  to  attack  the  new 
Christmas  sermon.  His  preparation  in  this  case 
consisted  principally  of  a  thoroughly  disagreeable 
mood.  Damnation  was  his  theme,  and  a  mild  form 
of  temporary  damnation  seemed  to  be  his  state.  For 
a  sense  of  the  cussedness  of  life  was  upon  him,  beak 
and  talons.  Animate  beings  (with  one  exception  or 
two)  were  perdition-bound;  and  inanimate  objects 
(cups,  for  instance)  were  possessed  of  devils.  The 
air  was  full  of  owls  and  imp-wings.  Things  had 
always  gone  wrong,  things  always  would  go  wrong. 
Life  was  the  breaking  of  nice  coffee-cups  one  after 
the  other. 

Adam  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  defiant  fling  of  his 
body  and  strode  across  the  room,  blowing  out  his 
frosty  breath  like  a  bull  snorting  rebellion.  That 
cup !  His  wife  should  have  known  how  he  treas 
ured  it.  For  Gudrun  had  given  him  that  cup  years 
and  years  ago.  Well,  probably  his  wife  had  broken 
it  on  purpose.  (Oh,  unction  to  the  tried  spirit.) 
He  remembered  other  pretty  cups  Gudrun  had 


22  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

brought  down,  when  he  held  bachelor's  hall  in  the 
parsonage.  Esperanza  had  smashed  them  all  long 
since;  and  Gudrun,  of  course,  would  come  to  the 
parsonage  no  more.  And  how  was  he  to  buy  a  new 
cup  with  a  family  and  his  paltry  few  hundreds  a 
year?  For  an  instant  came  the  memory  of  days 
long  before  that  family  existed,  jovial  days  in  Sile 
sia  until  the  crash,  and,  earlier  yet,  vagabondage 
days  on  the  highways  of  the  Tyrol  and  God  knows 
where  else,  in  Italy  and  the  Alps.  He  suddenly 
ached  for  the  highway  and  the  hills.  He  turned  to 
the  window.  There  were  no  hills  here.  He  could 
discern  a  straight  line  of  low  cottages,  shadowy 
through  the  snow,  and  above  them  the  gaunt,  snow- 
laden  boughs  of  old  lindens.  Roundabout  he  knew 
was  the  windy  land  spreading  with  its  elevations  and 
depressions,  monotonous  and  level  as  the  sea,  to  the 
sea's  gray  shore  itself.  There  was  no  zest  in  this 
northern  country,  only  gray  skies  and  the  sharp  salt 
air  and  the  biting  blast  over  the  heather.  He  turned 
his  eyes  southward,  remembering  that  though  Stro- 
mau  and  Wenkendorf  were  covered  with  his  shat 
tered  crockery,  no  cup  of  his  had  ever  broken  in 
the  south. 

The  round  spot  in  the  sky,  shining  like  a  silver 
plate,  was  dipping  toward  the  horizon,  ending  its 
brief  voyage.  Adam  knew  it  must  be  three  o'clock 
or  thereabouts,  and  high  time  that  he  map  out  the 
firstly,  secondly  and  thirdly  of  his  new  Christmas 
Sermon.  He  sat  down  at  his  desk,  as  he  had  sat 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  23 

down  a  half-dozen  times  in  the  past  hour,  and  dipped 
the  long  penholder  with  its  souvenir  bust  of  the 
Old  Emperor  at  the  top  (dating  from  eighty-eight, 
the  Dreikaiserjahr)  into  the  ink-pot. 

At  that  moment  Esperanza  opened  the  kitchen 
door.  The  potatoes  had  recurred  to  her  mind 
again  and  she  had  stopped  her  dish-washing.  Be 
fore  she  began  the  peeling  process  once  more,  it 
occurred  to  her,  however,  that  she  might  pacify  her 
spouse. 

uAdam,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  think  one  of  the 
coffee-cups  Aunt  Sophie  gave  me  might  do?  They 
are  almost  as  large  as " 

The  pastor  started  up,  overturning  his  chair. 
"Go !  Go  away !"  he  cried.  "I  can't  stand  you !" 

He  glared  at  her  as  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  and 
rolled  down  her  sad,  placid  cheeks;  then  abruptly 
threw  on  the  cape  that  hung  on  a  nail  nearby,  and 
his  little  green  hat  with  the  feather  (oh,  relic  of 
the  Tyrolese  wander-days),  and  stalked  out  of  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  WHICH  APPEARS  A  ONE-TIME  SAINT  TERESA  WITH 
A  YOUNG  MAN  FROM  WESTOVERSEA 

.  THE  snow  was  coming  down  in  thin  flakes  as 
Adam  opened  the  heavy  oak  door  that  led  out  into 
the  world.  For  an  instant  he  stood  on  the  threshold, 
affected  he  scarce  knew  how  or  why.  But  he  was  a 
peasant's  son  and  he  loved  the  out-of-doors;  and  in 
spite  of  his  inner  turmoil  the  beauty  of  the  wintry 
dayVend  was  suddenly  singing  to  him.  There  was 
a  heavenly  peace  in  that  wintry  landscape.  The  row 
of  little  plastered  cottages  was  utterly  still,  the  great 
shrouded  lindens  were  still.  Save  for  the  flickering 
wayfarers  of  the  snow,  there  was  no  motion  at  all 
on  the  earth  or  in  the  air.  No  man  passed,  break 
ing  the  smoothness  of  the  wintry  carpet;  no  lamp 
shone  yet  to  indicate  human  activity  within.  Over 
creation  lay  a  peace  that  Paradise  might  envy. 

The  pastor  felt  it  all  for  a  fleeting  second;  then 
with  three  angry  strides  he  crossed  the  little  garden 
in  front  of  the  parsonage  where  in  summer  Esper- 
anza  always  planted  nasturtiums  and  despondent 
fuchsias,  and  turned  sharply  to  the  left.  He  had 

24 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  25 

his  own  reasons  for  turning  to  the  left,  instead  of  to 
the  right,  which  led  nearer  the  woods  he  was  seek 
ing.  For  the  right-hand  road  led  past  the  Manor 
and  he  avoided  the  Manor  always,  for  the  peace  of 
his  soul.  The  Manor-house  spelt  Gudrun  and  a  love 
that  had  never  even  approached  the  foothills  of 
hope;  but  it  typified  other  blessings  too,  which  he 
might  hope  for  but  presumably  never  would  attain. 
For  one  thing  it  stood  in  his  eyes  for  comfort  of 
the  body,  which  meant  much  to  him.  He  knew  well 
enough  that  there  was  no  superabundance  of  joy 
within  those  gray  walls;  but  the  routine  of  life  at 
least  ran  with  uninterrupted  smoothness.  Meals 
came  and  went  and  came  again  five  times  a  day  as 
simply  as  dawn  comes,  or  the  postman.  And  they 
were  never  scorched,  he  felt  sure  of  that.  Sorrow, 
he  mused,  must  be  easier  to  bear  when  meals  come 
on  time. 

In  two  minutes  he  had  escaped  the  village  and 
was  turning  left  again,  past  the  blacksmith  shop 
(where  a  bearded  man  in  a  leather  apron  who  had 
left  a  leg  at  Mars  la  Tour  greeted  him  with  a 
cheery:  "  'N  Abend,  Herr  Pastor  1")  and  down  a 
narrow  road  flanked  by  half-grown  plum  trees. 
Right  and  left  were  open  fields  stretching  on  the 
left  to  a  line  of  tall  spruce  where  the  Manor's  park 
wall  ran,  and  on  the  right  for  a  half-mile  or  more, 
billowy  and  through  the  snowflakes,  mysterious,  to 
the  bordering  woods.  Sugar-beets  had  covered  these 
fields  last  summer,  he  remembered,  and  he  had 


26  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

often  taken  his  boy  and  girl  here  to  watch  the  rab 
bits  that  scampered  among  them. 

The  snow  was  deep  and  made  walking  slow,  so 
it  was  half  an  hour  before  he  had  covered  the  mile 
to  the  black  line  above  the  whiteness  where  the  for 
est  began.  The  woods  welcomed  him  with  a  quiet 
so  intense  that  he  was  almost  afraid.  They  were 
young  woods,  mostly  half-grown  spruce,  hemlocks, 
and  balsam  firs,  with  here  and  there  a  tall  oak  or 
pine  of  an  earlier  generation  watching  serenely  over 
the  slender  growth.  In  spring  they  were  always  an 
intoxicating  maze  of  fresh  green  bough-tips;  now 
they  were  somber,  for  the  snow  lay  heavily  on  the 
hemlock  branches  and  night  was  stalking  among  the 
stems. 

Adam  walked  down  a  lumber-cut  in  the  direction 
of  a  favorite  bench  of  his  that  stood  on  the  only 
elevation  within  miles  and  gave  some  view  over  the 
level  country.  On  clear  days  you  could  mark  a 
bright  silver  line  under  the  sun  that  was  the  Baltic, 
but  even  on  snowy  dusks  such  as  this  you  might  dis 
cern  east  and  west  a  dozen  manor-houses  with  their 
farm  buildings  like  huddled  chicks  beneath  huge 
linden  boughs.  The  spot,  moreover,  had  associa 
tions,  and  Adam  for  that  reason  had  sought  it  out 
so  often  that  it  seemed  his  own  personal  property, 
though  he  knew  well  enough  it  was  on  the  Baron's 
land.  It  was  on  this  bench  that  Gudrun,  just  turned 
fifteen,  had  eloquently  described  to  him  the  struggle 
she  was  having  at  home  not  to  be  sent  to  a  busy- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  27 

body  maiden  aunt  in  Berlin  for  the  six  months' 
instruction  her  mother  wished  her  to  take  under  a 
fashionable  court  preacher  preparatory  to  her  con 
firmation.  She  loved  Wenkendorf  and  the  untram- 
meled  outdoor  days,  and  dreaded  as  she  would  im 
prisonment  the  cramped  city  life.  Her  father  had 
sided  with  her,  as  he  generally  did,  dreading  on  his 
side  the  loneliness  of  the  Manor  with  only  the  mel 
ancholy  placidity  of  the  Baroness  for  company.  The 
pastor  remembered  that  the  decision  hung  fire  a 
month,  for  the  Baroness,  for  all  her  piety  and  resig 
nation,  was  never  an  easy  lady  to  budge;  and  it  was 
here  on  this  bench  again  that  Gudrun  told  him  with 
bright  eyes  that  she  had  won.  That,  with  the  later 
dusks  when  he  had  borne  the  dream  out  of  the  vex 
ations  of  daily  life  for  an  hour's  silent  revival,  fur 
nished  the  bright  side  of  the  bench's  associations. 
The  dark  side,  which  no  beauty  of  sunset  or  sum 
mer  fragrance  ever  let  him  ignore,  was  the  memory 
of  one  June  evening  when  he  had  come  with  racked 
soul,  fleeing  from  the  rumor  the  garrulous  old  coach 
man  had  dropped  at  his  door,  that  Fraulein  Gudrun 
was  engaged  to  a  young  count  in  garrison  at  Hiinen- 
feld.  He  had  always  known,  of  course,  that  some 
day  she  would  marry,  but  he  never  let  himself  be 
lieve  that  anyone  short  of  Theseus  would  be  able 
to  win  her.  And  Count  Max,  though  a  man  of 
breeding  and  many  scattered,  half-developed  talents, 
was  no  Theseus  at  all,  but  beneath  the  attractive 
exterior  a  very  commonplace,  butterflying  sort  of 


28  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

Prussian  officer.  The  pastor  hated  him  for  his 
superficial  grace  and  for  the  laying  bare  in  Gudrun 
of  a  less  noble  strain  than  he  had  ever  imagined 
could  be  in  that  lost  St.  Teresa  of  his.  For  the  girl, 
he  told  himself  painfully,  must  be  somewhere  akin 
to  the  man  she  had  chosen.  On  that  sorrowful  dusk 
Adam  severed  himself  definitely  from  the  Gudrun 
of  eighteen,  and  it  was  a  year  before  he  found  even 
his  dream-figure  again;  finding  her,  as  he  seemed  to 
find  so  much  of  his  joy  and  pain,  on  the  bench  in 
the  woods  he  was  approaching.  But  that  bench  had 
seen  mighty  conflicts  meanwhile  and  suffered  for  six 
months  complete  desertion.  For  Adam  in  his  dis 
tress  had  suddenly  gone  and  married  Esperanza,  and 
Gudrun  a  half-year  after  she  had  celebrated  her 
engagement,  with  all  the  attendant  ceremonials  of 
love-feast,  public  announcements  and  photographs 
in  "Sport  und  Welt"  had  broken  it. 

The  pastor  was  glad  to  remember  it  all  as  he 
plodded  through  the  heavy  snow,  for  it  helped  him 
to  forget  the  sordid  present.  He  remembered  his 
misery  when  Gudrun,  looking  ill  and  unhappy  after 
the  fire  and  water  of  gossip  she  had  gone  through 
following  the  broken  engagement,  had  called  for 
mally  on  his  wife.  For  the  first  time  he  had  felt 
almost  a  right  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  comfort 
her  in  her  sorrow;  for  even  he,  who  was  not  analyt 
ical,  realized  that  her  sorrow  was  partly  grief  over 
a  dead  hope,  partly  disappointment  and  partly  hu 
miliation;  and  therefore  akin  to  an  old  sorrow  of  his 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  29 

which  he  hid  from  all  the  world,  even  from  him 
self  when  he  could,  but  knew  was  blazoned  on 
his  heart  in  fiery  letters — STROMAU.  Her  sorrow 
seemed  to  bring  her  close  to  him;  and  through  the 
pang  of  seeing  her  thus  with  his  wife  between  them 
as  mark  of  his  infidelity  ran  the  joy  of  the  knowl 
edge  that  her  spirit  had  not  been  satisfied  with  the 
superficial  glamour  Count  Max  had  offered  her  in 
place  of  love,  and  had  taken  up  its  journey  among 
the  spheres  again.  But  he  uttered  neither  his  agony 
nor  his  joy,  nor,  needless  to  say,  did  he  take  her  in 
his  arms.  He  was  more  than  usually  silent  and 
stiff,  so  that  thenceforth  Gudrun,  deeming  herself 
unwelcome,  kept  away  from  the  parsonage. 

Adam  strode  moodily  through  the  snow.  How 
like  a  happening  of  yesterday  it  all  was !  And  now 
five  years  were  gone.  Gudrun  was  farther  away 
than  ever — a  crystalline  niche-figure  set  among  stars 
— and  he,  poor  plodder  on  a  stony  highway,  was 
older  and  duller  and  harder  and  more  unhappy. 

The  bench  was  occupied.  Two  figures,  black 
against  the  mother-of-pearl  sky,  were  seated  there 
gazing  over  the  white  lands.  The  snow  had  ceased. 
In  the  hollows,  very  dark  and  clear  against  the  white 
fields,  the  scattered  manors  stood  out — long,  huddled 
roofs,  gray  walls  that  seemed  black  in  contrast  to 
the  pure  whiteness  of  the  snow,  stark  trunks  and 
overhanging  limbs,  with  here  and  there  a  pine  or  a 
cedar  coldly  immortal  among  his  mortal,  deciduous 


30  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

fellows.  Through  the  crisp  silence  came  now  the 
lowing  of  cattle  calling  the  milkers,  and  from  an 
other  hollow  the  melancholy  baying  of  a  mastiff. 
A  sleigh  jingled  busily  down  the  highway  to  town, 
ten  miles  away. 

The  pastor  saw  and  heard  it  all,  for  he  had 
stopped,  wondering  whether  to  turn  or  to  proceed. 
He  could  not  identify  the  intruders.  They  were  a 
man  and  a  woman,  so  much  only  he  could  see,  and 
at  the  woman's  feet  lay  a  black  shape  which  was 
presumably  a  dog.  The  sky  was  growing  brighter 
now  as  the  clouds  melted,  and  the  pair  on  the  bench 
blacker,  more  distinct  in  outline,  but  more  unrecog 
nizable  against  it.  He  watched  the  silhouettes  a  mo 
ment,  puzzled  to  know  who  they  might  be.  A  faint 
suspicion  stirred  in  him,  and  a  minute  later  the 
woman  turned  her  head  and  the  misty  sunset  lit  to 
flame  the  shapeless  red  felt  hat  she  wore.  Adam 
recognized  that  hat  with  a  sharp  pang  that  raced 
through  his  veins,  leaving  fire  where  it  went.  It  was 
the  lineal  descendant  of  another  red  felt  hat  in  whose 
band  clusters  of  cherries  had  hung  one  June  day 
ten  years  before.  The  woman  under  it  was  Gudrun 
von  Hallern. 

The  pastor  felt  his  blood  ebb  and  flow  about  his 
heart  with  a  thunder  as  loud  as  the  surf;  for  as  he 
watched  he  heard  them  speak  in  such  low  tones  as 
the  first  creatures  of  earth  must  have  used,  fearing 
the  eavesdropping  stars.  The  man  spoke  low  and 
she  answered  with  a  sudden  quick  lift  of  her  head 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  31 

that  Adam  remembered  was  characteristic  even  of 
her  early  girlhood  and  that  told  of  a  message  of 
eyes  saying  things  that  the  lips  could  not  frame. 
The  two  were  silent  for  a  minute,  then  slowly  the 
woman's  hand  crept  over  to  the  man's.  Adam  felt 
a  burning  in  his  soul,  a  crying  that  was  anguish,  not 
for  the  Gudrun  there  before  him,  nor  for  the  dream- 
Gudrun,  but  just  for  youth,  youth,  youth !  The  girl 
drew  back,  retreating,  it  seemed  playfully,  from  the 
man.  Then,  when  the  pastor  somehow  was  least 
expecting  it,  came  the  blow.  For  they  kissed. 

Adam  shrank  back  into  the  trees.  The  voice  of 
his  own  youth  centuries  away  cried  to  him  that  the 
place  was  sacred  ground  which  he  must  not  pro 
fane.  Misery  like  a  ghastly  hand  was  squeezing  his 
heart.  Youth !  He  seemed  to  forget  that  it  was 
Gudrun  he  had  seen,  for  the  cry  in  him  was  not 
for  her,  but  for  the  radiance  he  had  suddenly  di 
vined  in  that  hand  groping  for  another  hand,  that 
head  thrust  back,  that  kiss — the  golden  moment  he 
had  never  found,  when  the  soul  of  man  is  all  ten 
drils  reaching  toward  the  sun.  He  backed  into  the 
woods.  He  was  suddenly,  unaccountably  humble. 
He  must  not  break  in  on  their  hour.  He  must  go 
and  go  swiftly,  for  through  the  anguish  for  youth 
gone  by  began  to  beat  the  pain  of  his  own  tender 
ness  for  the  slender  shadow  in  the  red  felt  hat. 

A  dead  bough  fell  in  his  path  with  a  crash  that 
stirred  not  the  lovers  at  all  but  woke  with  a  start 
the  dachshund  at  their  feet.  He  jumped  up,  lis- 


32  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

tened  an  instant  with  waving  tail  and  palpitating 
ears;  then,  with  a  bark,  stirred  his  comical  little 
legs  to  incredible  swiftness  and  made  straight  for 
the  pastor  in  the  thicket. 

The  shadow-girl  drew  herself  quickly  from  the 
shadow-man's  arms.  "Scamp,  Scamp,  you  rapscal 
lion!  He's  after  a  bird.  I'll  teach  him."  She  rose 
to  pursue  with  a  quick  energy  that  spelled  hard  times 
for  Scamp;  but  the  man  held  her,  laughing  a  deep- 
toned  laugh  as  she  struggled. 

"But  I  don't  want  him  to  get  a  bird,  Jimmie. 
Let  me  go,  please.  I've  been  working  for  years 
trying  to  train  that  beast  and  now  you  spoil  every 
thing." 

The  shadow  called  Jimmie  evidently  did  not  re 
lease  his  hold  much,  for  through  the  brush  the  pas 
tor  could  see  a  struggle  against  the  dulling  sky.  He 
saw  no  more  for  a  minute  or  two,  however,  for 
Scamp  had  arrived  and  was  offering  his  trouser  legs 
attentions  which  the  pastor  did  not  view  with  favor. 

"Go  'way,  go  'way!"  he  cried.  Scamp,  the  dachs 
hund,  did  not  go  away,  neither  did  he  seriously  fol 
low  up  his  first  threat  to  bite.  He  contented  him 
self  with  merely  dancing  in  canine  ecstasy  about 
the  perturbed  pastor. 

"You  presumptuous  young  man!"  cried  a  vigor 
ous  voice  from  the  bench.  "Now  we  can  see  right 
off  who's  going  to  be  boss.  Let  me  go !  I  warn 

you!" 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  33 

"I've  only  had  you  five  minutes,"  pleaded  the 
young  man.  "And  I  can't  let  you  go  yet." 

"Just  see  if  you  can't  if  you  try."  This  with  a 
struggle  of  a  right  arm  freeing  itself. 

"Nope,"  said  the  man  with  final  decisiveness. 
"I've  thought  it  over.  Can't  be  done." 

The  girl's  free  hand  described  the  necessary  semi 
circle  and  came  down  none  too  gently  on  the  young 
man's  left  ear.  Involuntarily  he  relaxed  his  hold. 
"Oh,  you  Xantippe !"  he  cried.  "Now  I'll  never  let 
you  go !" 

But  the  girl  was  out  of  his  arms  and  away  down 
the  lumber-cut  before  he  could  tighten  his  hold  again. 
Scamp  was  still  barking,  and  she  plunged  with 
strong,  free  strides  into  the  woods  in  the  general 
direction  from  which  the  sound  came.  The  woods 
were  dark,  but  there  was  no  underbrush  and  it  was 
not  two  minutes  before  she  was  upon  the  errant 
Scamp  and  his  quarry.  She  recognized  the  pastor 
at  once,  though  she  could  not  clearly  see  his  face. 
She  knew  the  great,  hulking,  black  form,  and  her 
greeting  was  cordial. 

"Good  evening,  Herr  Pastor!"  she  cried. 
"Scamp !  Come  here !  Naughty  Scamp  I  I  am  so 
sorry.  Scamp!  He  didn't  bite  you,  did  he?  I  was 
afraid  he  was  after  a  bird." 

Adam  pulled  off  his  hat  with  the  peasant's  obse 
quiousness,  which  means  that  there  was  no  grace 
in  the  action,  only  a  scramble  to  bare  the  head.  He 
mumbled  something  that  neither  he  nor  the  girl  un- 


34  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

derstood,  but  it  made  no  difference,  for  at  that  mo 
ment  the  young  man,  who  had  lost  his  way,  came 
up. 

uPoor  bird!"  he  said  as  he  joined  the  girl.  The 
pastor  did  not  understand,  but  grew  suddenly  rigid, 
took  a  step  toward  the  American  and  clapped  his 
heels  together.  "Pastor  Samuels!"  he  cried. 

The  American  was  just  a  bit  dazed.  For  a  second 
he  had  feared  an  attack  (being  a  frontiersman,  and 
not  knowing  the  temper  of  the  natives),  then  an 
almost  overwhelming  desire  to  laugh  at  this  black 
statue  inhibited  speech.  At  last  he  gathered  his 
senses  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Oh,  glad  to  meet  you.  My  name  is  Hammer- 
dale."  He  spoke  English  still,  that  being  the  only 
language  he  knew.  The  pastor  could  understand 
the  tone,  though  the  words  were  lost  on  him,  and, 
suspecting  that  the  stranger  had  done  his  part  in 
the  ritual  of  introduction,  relaxed. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  The  pastor  was 
tingling  with  the  presence  of  Gudrun  after  the  long 
gap;  meanwhile,  staring  at  the  American,  as  he  tried 
in  vain  through  the  dusk  to  discern  the  features  of 
this  man  who  had  come,  as  that  other  had  come  five 
years  before,  to  take  away  the  daughter  of  the 
Manor.  He  could  see  that  he  was  medium-tall  and 
strongly  built.  His  voice  bespoke  power,  courtesy 
and  possibly  a  kindly  heart,  without,  he  was  glad 
to  note,  the  gallantry  he  detested  in  the  officers  who 
had  come  wooing  from  Hiinenfeld.  The  rest  was 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  35 

dusk  and  mystery.  The  man  was  still  a  shadow 
against  a  bright  sky. 

Gudrun  hesitated,  then  broke  the  silence.  "Herr 
Pastor/*  she  said,  "do  you  want  to  know  a  secret? 
I'm  engaged." 

This  news  did  not  startle  the  pastor.  The  scene 
on  the  bench  had  been  self-explanatory.  But  he  did 
not  try  to  offer  conventional  wishes  or  benedictions, 
for  he  was  listening  to  friendly,  tender  things  that 
were  echoing  around  the  words  she  had  spoken. 
They  seemed  to  say  (or  did  he,  who  was  sensitive 
enough,  but  not  very  imaginative  and  not  at  all  sub 
tle,  merely  dream  it?)  :  "You  know  what  this  means 
to  me.  That  other  was  a  flash  in  the  pan  but  this 
is  real  and  abiding."  She  took  the  young  man's 
hand  as  they  stood  side  by  side.  "This  is  my  boy," 
she  spoke.  "And  he's  very  nice  when  he's  not  ob 
stinate,  but  when  he  is,  I  have  to  spank  him.  But 
he'll  learn.  Husbands  have  to  be  obedient  nowa 
days.  I  learned  that  in  America.  And  I'm  going  to 
make  my  American  husband  toe  the  mark."  She 
spoke  laughingly;  and  when  Gudrun,  on  request,  had 
interpreted,  the  American  laughed  too,  a  quiet,  good- 
natured  laugh. 

"They  all  talk  that  way,"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
minister,  quite  forgetting  that  that  gentleman  knew 
about  as  much  English  as  Scamp  the  Dachshund. 
"But  they  eat  out  of  our  hand  in  a  week." 

Gudrun  laughed  softly  and  happily,  not  derisively 
at  all.  There  was  a  quiver  in  the  laugh  like  the 


36  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

quiver  of  moonlight  on  a  brook.  Her  hand  sought 
her  Young  Man's.  It  did  not  have  to  search  long, 
for  the  Young  Man's  was  searching  too.  She  gave 
it  a  quick,  warm  pressure,  and  as  she  did  so  she  felt 
her  eyes  fill.  She  hesitated  a  moment  to  control 
her  voice. 

"He's  an  old  idiot,  Herr  Pastor,"  she  said  softly. 
"He's  trying  to  tell  you  what  a  tyrant  he  is.  But 
he's  the  one  who  has  given  me  strength  and  taught 
me  how  a  woman  can  really  be  a  comrade  to  a  man. 
Oh,  he's  swept  my  head  clear  of  a  wagon-load  of 
cobwebs,  and  made  me  feel  independent  and  really 
useful  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  really  believe 
that  if  we  live  long  enough  Jimmie  will  be  able  to 
persuade  me  that  it  was  important  that  I  should 
have  been  born." 

The  American  divined  the  gist  of  her  words  and 
did  not  laugh  this  time.  He  pressed  her  shoulder 
hard  as  he  would  a  man's  and  under  cover  of  the 
falling  darkness  kissed  the  black  hair  under  the 
red  felt  hat,  pretending  that  he  was  bending  down 
to  break  a  twig  off  a  bough  that  was  threatening 
her.  The  pastor  observed  the  proceeding  and  un 
derstood,  though  his  mind  was  attempting  to  form 
some  reply  to  the  girl's  speech.  He  found  it  diffi 
cult.  The  point  of  view  was  new.  Besides  (Gud- 
run  or  no  Gudrun)  it  was  moonshine. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  collect  his  thoughts.  They 
seemed  to  be  wandering  like  sheep  about  that  indis 
tinct,  black  hill  that  was  the  girl's  head,  browsing 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  37 

in  her  hair,  in  the  fringed  coverts  of  her  eyelids 
and  about  the  frank,  noble  heights  and  depths  al 
most  hidden  in  the  dark.  It  seemed  to  him  hours 
before  he  spoke,  but  the  two  beside  him  did  not 
seem  to  notice  his  abstraction;  for  they  were  telling 
each  other  ancient  tales  with  finger-tips,  and  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  pastor. 

"Of  course  it  is  important  that  you  should  have 
been  born,"  he  answered  dogmatically,  with  a  touch 
of  resentment,  leveled,  possibly,  against  Hammer- 
dale  for  not  quelling,  before  this,  so  patent  a  heresy. 
"But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  independence.  It 
is  wisely  written  in  the  Scriptures  that  the  woman 
shall  serve  and  obey  the  man.  Her  usefulness  lies 
not  in  independence,  my  dear  young  lady,  but  in 
service  to  her  husband  and  her  children.  It  is  not 
womanly  for  a  woman  to  want  to  be  independent.  It 
is  not  good  for  her  to  have  such  ideas.  They  make 
her  discontented  and  bring  discord  into  the  home." 
Then,  in  a  voice  deeper,  and  it  seemed,  sincerely  re 
gretful,  he  added,  "I  am  sorry  you  have  brought 
back  such  ideas  from  that  too  free  country." 

By  a  mighty  effort  the  girl  willed  herself  back 
from  Illyria  in  time  to  take  in  the  pastor's  last  words. 
They  made  her  want  to  laugh  a  little,  for  they  re 
called  to  her  mind  one  or  two  occasions  in  the  New 
World  when,  for  hours  on  end,  charming,  but  shock 
ingly  liberal,  young  ladies  had  flung  themselves  in 
vain  against  what  they  called,  in  despair,  "the  stern 
and  rock-bound  coast"  of  her  old-fashioned  mind. 


38  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

How  remote,  how  unreal,  how  completely  removed 
from  the  struggle  of  life  this  funny  old  parson- 
friend  of  her  childhood  seemed,  since  he  regarded 
her,  with  her  little  handful  of  modern  aspirations, 
as  so  wicked  a  radical.  But  her  own  defense  of  cer 
tain  of  the  cobwebs  in  her  garret  which  Hammer- 
dale's  broom  had  finally  swept  out  was  still  too  vivid 
in  her  mind  to  make  her  reply  other  than  humble. 

"America  has  not  made  me  a  heretic,  Herr  Pas 
tor.  And  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I  would 
blatantly  speak  against  what  you  and  so  many  people 
I  care  for  hold  sacred.  But  I  have  learned  to  think 
that  a  certain  kind  of  discontent  is  a  cardinal  virtue. 
That,"  she  went  on  softly,  "is  this  bad  man's  fault. 
He  has  made  me  divinely  discontent" — she  looked 
up  into  Hammerdale's  face  with  the  old,  swift  lift 
of  her  head  that  made  the  pastor's  veins  burn  again, 
and  added  so  faintly  that  only  he  heard  for  whom 
the  words  were  meant — "and,  oh,  my  Jimmie,  di 
vinely  content." 

What  Jimmie  thought  of  the  presence  of  a  third 
person  at  so  critical  a  moment  is  locked  away  with 
many  other  interesting  things  in  his  own  private 
archives.  But  he  boldly  kissed  her  in  spite  of  it. 

They  walked  home  together,  all  three  silent  and 
full  of  newborn  thoughts  like  buds  in  May,  not  quite 
full  grown  for  utterance.  Night,  which  had  been 
close  upon  them  in  the  woods,  was  still  a  good  half 
hour  away  in  the  white  fields  under  the  low  gray 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  39 

canopy.  The  air  was  sparkling  and  lent  vigor  to 
their  steps  and  courage  to  their  souls.  They  drew 
it  into  their  lungs  and  responded  to  it.  The  burn 
ing  heart  of  each  flamed  to  its  gusts  and,  for  a  space 
that  seemed  stolen  out  of  time  and  set  apart  upon 
a  hill  in  eternity,  the  three  marched  through  the 
snow  together,  nobly  akin. 

It  was  easy  for  the  girl  and  her  lover  to  forget 
themselves — that  happens  to  be  the  inevitable  con 
comitant  and,  perhaps,  the  essential  virtue  of  falling 
in  love.  But  for  the  pastor  to  walk  among  the 
angels  unconscious  of  his  sad  lot  so  soon  after  what 
had  proved  a  particularly  successful  row  with  his 
wife  was  a  different  matter.  As  a  rule  he  did  not 
let  heaven  or  earth  interrupt  the  regular  succession 
of  crescendo,  double  forte  and  gradual  diminuendo 
of  his  indignation  and  self-pity.  Love,  it  seemed, 
was  moving  him  as  it  moves  the  sun  and  the  other 
stars,  though  in  no  way  that  he  could  even  remotely 
understand.  He  felt  no  wrath  at  all  now,  but  neither 
did  he  feel  any  of  the  poignant  longing  of  his  dream- 
hours  nor  any  regret  that  life  should  be  other  than 
it  was.  It  may  be  that  he  felt  nothing  at  all;  cer 
tainly  he  thought  no  thoughts.  Perhaps  it  was  that 
the  world  through  which  they  went  was  surcharged 
with  beatitude  and  his  spirit  was  unconsciously  im 
bibing;  or,  perhaps,  that  a  sense  of  companionship 
he  had  never  known,  that  the  crystal  air  only  and 
the  mysterious,  dreamy  hand  of  the  twilight  gave, 
as  with  divine  potency  it  drew  veils  and  veils,  making 


40  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

queens'  bowers  out  of  barns,  was  upon  his  heart. 
But,  however  it  came  about,  the  pastor's  heels  that 
had  been  sluggish  were  winged  now,  and  his  being 
was  a  rosy  suffusion. 

A  wall  of  tall,  black  pines,  looming  taller  and 
blacker  every  second,  hammered  on  the  consciousness 
of  the  three  pedestrians  until  gradually  it  woke 
them  from  their  dreamy  state  to  the  wintry  world 
again.  The  wall  was  the  western  boundary  of  Wen- 
kendorf  Manor.  Behind  it,  dimly  visible  through 
bare  beech-boughs  and  snow-laden  firs,  lay  the 
Manor-house.  It  was  a  stately  pile,  square,  gray, 
austere.  There  were  tales  enough  running  from 
mouth  to  mouth  of  the  sorrows  that  Manor-house 
had  seen,  the  latest  not  the  least.  They  were  vague 
tales  but  for  that  reason  all  the  more  alluring  to 
listen  to  and  to  pass  along.  All  that  the  village 
really  knew  was  that  the  gentle-souled  old  Baron 
was  growing  grayer  and  grimmer  and  the  pious  Bar 
oness  "queerer"  and  more  detached  year  by  year. 
Lying  servants  spread  wild  legends,  and  truthful 
ones  admitted  that  the  Baron  and  his  lady  never 
spoke  with  one  another.  At  long  intervals  some 
guest  from  far  away  would  come  for  a  week  to  the 
house;  from  the  neighboring  manors  no  carriage 
ever  rolled  through  the  clean,  noisy  gravel  to  the 
stately  porte  cochere. 

The  house  had  a  cold  look  in  the  daytime,  as  if 
it,  too,  had  a  heart  that  was  slowly  petrifying.  But 
on  this  night  it  looked  very  cheery  through  the  twi- 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  41 

light.  There  were  lights  in  the  basement  windows 
— that  was  the  kitchen.  There  were  lights  in  the 
east  room  of  the  first  floor — that  was  the  Baron's 
study.  There  were  lights  in  the  middle  room  above 
— that  was  the  Baroness's  bedroom.  Master,  mis 
tress  and  servants  were  accounted  for,  the  house 
seemed  to  say.  They  stopped  at  the  open  gate.  It 
was  flanked  by  posts  surmounted  by  spread  eagles, 
and  through  it  the  wide  road,  marked  in  the  heavy 
snow  only  by  the  indistinct  depressions  of  the  gut 
ters,  wound  to  the  house. 

Gudrun  spoke.  Her  voice  was  low  as  though  she 
feared  the  espionage  of  the  great  firs,  and  some  of 
the  brightness  had  gone  out  of  it.  "I  don't  think 
I'll  go  home  yet.  It  is  so  heavenly  out  here.  I 
don't  want  to  go  home  yet." 

She  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud,  and  neither 
Adam  nor  the  American  ventured  a  suggestion,  but 
stood  waiting  for  her  decision.  "I  ought  to  go  in," 
she  said. 

For  another  second  or  two  she  hesitated,  her  lips 
half  smiling  at  the  new  spirit  of  rebellion  faintly 
reflected  in  her  eyes.  Then,  suddenly,  she  picked 
up  her  skirts  and  ran  ahead  down  the  road,  stopped, 
and  a  moment  later  sent  a  snowball  whizzing  be 
tween  the  heads  of  the  two  men,  so  close  to  both 
that  both  ducked.  The  girl  laughed  ringing  derision, 
and  ran  on.  Her  Young  Man  brought  her  to  with 
a  well-aimed  ball  across  her  bows.  She  turned  with 
a  great  show  of  indignation,  leapt  behind  a  tree 


42  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

and  showered  him  with  loose  snow  as  he  ran  up  to 
catch  her.  Two  faces  were  washed  redder  and 
brighter  with  the  clean  snow  and  behind  the  tree 
somebody  kissed. 

The  pastor  walked  on  after  his  rather  undig 
nified  evasion  of  the  first  snowball,  a  little  ruffled 
and  uncomfortable.  He  did  not  know  how  to  act. 
A  beautiful  girl  had  never  thrown  a  snowball  at 
him  before.  He  had  never  stopped  to  realize  that 
a  woman  might  throw  a  snowball  at  all.  Esperanza 
had  never  been  of  much  value  in  enlightening  him 
concerning  the  possibilities  of  her  sex;  for  Esperanza 
always  strove  to  do  exactly  what  her  husband  ex 
pected  of  her.  She,  therefore,  merely  confirmed 
what  had  been  unsupported  theories  and  prejudices. 
That  a  man,  moreover,  should  retaliate  seemed  to 
him  a  dangerous  admission  of  equality,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  piece  of  condemnable  disrespect  to  the 
pedestaled  sex — he  was  not  sure  which.  Anyway, 
the  whole  performance  was  disquieting,  for  he  did 
not  know  whether  he  admired  Gudrun  more  because 
of  this  display  of  her  vigorous  loveliness,  or  less  be 
cause  she  was  so  much  a  tomboy  when  he  preferred 
to  keep  her  comfortably  pigeon-holed  as  a  goddess. 

He  joined  the  ecstatic  pair  near  the  church  and 
found  them  in  silly  mood,  giggling  and  behaving 
like  idiots. 

"What  do  you  think,  Herr  Pastor?"  Gudrun 
called  out  as  he  approached.  "What  do  you  think 
this  two-year-old  boy  wants  me  to  do?  To  march 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  43 

up  into  that  church  and  make  you  marry  us  on  the 
spot!  He  says  that's  the  way  he'd  do  the  business 
in  Colorado.  He  doesn't  even  know  about  reading 
the  banns.  Isn't  he  a  sheep?" 

Her  voice  ran  up  and  down  the  pastor's  spine. 
There  was  such  magnificent  abundance  of  youth  in 
it.  But  he  answered  seriously,  with  due  weight,  not 
to  say  ponderously,  "Marriage  is  a  serious  institu 
tion  and  not  to  be  contracted  lightly.  You  must 
explain  to  this  young  gentleman  that  this  is  not  free 
America  where " 

The  girl  groaned  inwardly,  but  she  stepped  closer 
to  the  pastor  and  said  simply,  "You  should  know 
me,  Herr  Pastor.  You  should  know  I  am  not  really 
irreverent.  I  was  joking.  Laugh,  won't  you, 
please?" 

He  stared  at  her,  but  he  was  puzzled  and  an 
noyed  and  not  in  the  mood  for  laughter  at  all.  The 
exhilaration  of  the  walk  in  the  twilight  had  ended 
somewhat  as  the  exhilaration  of  champagne  has  a 
way  of  ending — in  Katzen jammer.  He  had  been  a 
child,  he  told  himself,  a  fantastic  dreamer  led  astray 
by  a  sentimental  pair  of  young  lovers.  He  half  ad 
mitted  to  himself  that  this  was  not  true,  but  it  gave 
him  some  satisfaction  to  blame  his  lapse  from  wrath 
and  dignity  on  someone  else,  and  thus  lull  his  dis 
content  with  himself  for  his  helplessness  in  the  com 
pany  of  youth.  So  he  did  not  laugh,  but  stared 
rather  stupidly  at  the  face,  vivid  to  him  even  through 


44  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

the  dark,  and  unsprung  the  latch  of  the  parsonage 
gate. 

"Will  you  come  in?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  meant 
to  discourage  acceptance. 

Gudrun  chose  to  ignore  the  hook  in  the  invita 
tion  and  answered  gaily.  "Why,  thank  you.  Of 
course.  I  haven't  seen  the  Frau  Pastorin  since 
our  return.  Jimmie,  straighten  your  necktie  and 
brush  down  that  terrible,  wild  hair  of  yours."  She 
drew  off  his  cap  and  smoothed  a  rebellious  cow 
lick  as  well  as  she  could,  while  he  stood  blissfully 
acquiescent.  "We  are  going  to  make  a  formal  call 
on  the  Frau  Pastorin." 


CHAPTER    III 


IN   WHICH    A    BARON'S    DAUGHTER    SHOWS    THE 
OGRE'S  WIFE  HOW  TO  WASH  DISHES 


ADAM  had  meant  to  be  kind  in  making  his  invi 
tation  sound  as  uninviting  as  possible — kind  prima 
rily  to  himself,  of  course,  for  he  wanted  an  opportu 
nity  to  be  alone,  but  kind  also  to  his  wife.  His 
indignation  against  her  had  died  long  ago.  His  con 
science  never,  in  fact,  allowed  his  wrath  long  life, 
and  it  had  passed  this  time  even  before  the  living 
Gudrun  had  broken  into  his  meditations  on  the  lost 
dream.  He  was  able  to  think  of  Esperanza  with 
perfect  equanimity,  and  he  charitably  realized  that 
a  call  at  this  hour  would  be  an  event  akin  to  a  catas 
trophe.  Gudrun  would  have  divined  this  had  she 
not  forgotten  in  the  year  of  her  absence  from  Wen- 
kendorf  what  a  fluttering,  helpless,  dependent  body 
the  Frau  Pastorin  was.  But,  truth  to  tell,  she  was 
not  thinking  about  the  Frau  Pastorin  at  all.  She 
was  merely  happy  as  heaven,  and  was  staving  off 
any  way  she  could  the  return  to  the  Manor-house 
and  its  killing  gloom. 

The  good  pastor  did  his  best  to  make  his  voice 

45 


46  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

sound  hospitable  as  he  called  through  the  little 
house,  "Esperanza !  Here  are  visitors  to  call  on 
you."  But  the  gladness  was  forced.  Even  Gudrun 
noticed  that. 

There  was  no  reply  for  thirty  seconds  at  least. 
Then  a  faint,  resigned  voice  answered,  "I  am  com 
ing,  Adam." 

The  pastor  led  his  visitors  into  his  study,  which 
was  likewise  the  living-room  and,  like  every  other 
room  in  the  house,  the  nursery.  It  was  chill,  for 
the  fire  in  the  great  porcelain  structure  in  the  corner 
that  looked  like  a  tomb  had  gone  out  at  noon  and 
Esperanza  had  been  too  busy  to  undertake  the  la 
borious  process  of  relighting  it.  Also,  it  was  dark; 
and  not  until  Adam  had  stumbled  over  a  soft  thing 
that  howled  when  he  stubbed  his  foot  against  it  on 
the  way  to  the  lamp,  did  the  suspicion  arise  in  him 
that  the  room  was  scarcely  likely  to  prove  a  place 
wherein  to  entertain  callers.  His  suspicions  proved 
correct.  The  lamp  revealed  various  infants,  two  to 
be  exact,  grimy  and  slobbery  infants,  lying  about  the 
floor  asleep  or  crossly  waking.  They  had  evidently 
been  holding  high  revel  in  their  father's  absence, 
for  papers  were  scattered  helter-skelter,  ink  was  run 
ning,  like  a  black  brook  under  ice,  in  a  thin  trickle 
beneath  the  torn  pages  of  the  Christmas  sermon, 
and  books  lay  open  and  torn-leaved  over  the  floor. 

Gudrun  saw  the  blood  rise  in  the  pastor's  cheeks 
to  his  hair  and  the  tips  of  his  outstanding  ears.  He 
was  wrathy  and  he  was  ashamed.  The  American 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  47 

noted  it  likewise.  "Poor  devil!"  he  whispered  to 
his  lady. 

For  a  half  minute  or  so  the  pastor  watched  the 
scene  of  devastation  in  silence.  It  was  his  way  of 
making  the  most  of  misery,  to  let  it  sink  in,  to  absorb 
it  all,  then  to  bellow.  When  he  finally  spoke  his 
voice  was  harsh  with  uncontrolled  rage. 

"You — you — you — beggar's  offspring!'*  he  cried, 
punctuating  his  words  with  cuffs  about  the  ears  of 
his  howling  progeny.  "Unregenerate  imps!" 

He  caught  one  of  the  babes  by  the  collar. 
Whether  he  was  about  to  lay  him  over  his  knee  then 
and  there,  or  administer  some  other  form  of  punish 
ment  which  his  rage  may  have  suggested,  Gudrun 
and  her  Young  Man  never  knew.  For  at  that  mo 
ment,  Esperanza,  with  waist  not  half  hooked  up 
the  back,  rushed  in  from  the  kitchen  and  laid  a 
staying  hand  on  the  child's  body.  From  the  deep 
pleading  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  tones  as  she  cried, 
"Adam!"  you  would  have  thought  she  was  a  Niobe 
protecting  her  offspring  from  a  vengeful  but  curi 
ously  unbeautiful  Apollo.  The  father  let  the  boy 
slide  to  the  floor. 

"This  is  what  happens  when  I  go  out!"  he  cried, 
turning  the  torrents  upon  his  wife,  "my  books!  my 
papers!"  To  all  intents  and  purposes  he  had  com 
pletely  forgotten  the  presence  of  Gudrun  and  Ham- 
merdale.  His  eyes  flashed  anger,  a  tirade  seemed 
to  quiver  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  ready  to  descend 
on  the  hapless  little  victim,  his  wife.  He  seemed 


48  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

to  hesitate  only  because  rage  made  him  temporarily 
speechless. 

It  was  a  pleasant  domestic  scene,  and  the  Ameri 
can  watched  it  with  detached  interest  and  amuse 
ment.  People  were  always  a  joy  to  him,  and  here 
was  a  species  he  had  so  far  missed.  But  to  Gudrun 
the  violent  outbreak  spelled  tragedy,  possibly  more 
tragedy  than  was  actually  inherent  in  it,  for  it  re 
called  to  her  similar  scenes  in  her  own  childhood, 
when  the  language  was  less  crude,  perhaps,  but  the 
underlying  passion  no  less  uncontrolled.  Her  father 
had  been  the  silent  sufferer,  as  Esperanza  was  now. 
Gudrun's  happiness  fled  somewhere  into  the  dark. 
She  found  herself  wondering  if  this  were  indeed 
marriage ;  and  knew  the  same  moment  that  the  ques 
tion  was  absurd. 

"Adam,"  cried  Esperanza  in  low  tones.  "Please. 
We  are  not  alone." 

The  pastor  caught  his  breath,  and  Gudrun,  on 
the  watch,  wedged  in  the  saving  word. 

"You  must  forgive  us  for  coming  in  on  you  at 
this  time  of  day,"  she  said  cordially.  "I'm  afraid 
the  dear  kiddies  keep  you  busy." 

The  little  lady  turned  to  her  with  quivering  lip 
and  grateful  glance.  "Yes,"  she  answered,  sighing. 
"I  was  in  the  kitchen  putting  the  baby  to  bed  and 
when  the  other  children  were  quiet  in  here  I  thought 
they  had  gone  to  sleep.  They  did  not  mean  to  be 
naughty.  They  are  good  children." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  Gudrun  responded,  her  heart 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  49 

warming  as  never  before  to  the  meek  little  Frau 
Pastorin.  "Tell  me  about  them."  As  an  after 
thought  she  presented  the  American.  Esperanza 
bowed  stiffly,  somewhat  embarrassed.  The  Ameri 
can  withdrew  the  hand  he  held  out  when  he  realized 
that  the  pastor's  wife  did  not  understand  that  she 
was  supposed  to  shake  it. 

Esperanza  did  tell  something  of  the  children,  but 
without  eloquence.  This  big  one  was  Adam,  junior, 
aged  four;  this  next  one  was  Klarchen,  aged  three; 
in  the  kitchen-cradle  lay  Jakob,  aged  one.  And  so 
on.  Conversation  dragged.  The  children  slipped 
from  thought  and  shortly  after  from  sight,  drifting 
off  into  slumberland  again  under  the  table;  while 
Gudrun  continued  what  suddenly  occurred  to  her 
was  a  monologue.  Esperanza  watched  her  humbly, 
though  a  trifle  distractedly,  as  though  she  were  lis 
tening  also  for  sounds  from  elsewhere.  The  red 
blotches  on  her  cheeks  were  glowing  hot.  Hammer- 
dale,  in  a  dusky  corner,  noted  that  she  was  trying, 
unobserved,  to  button  her  waist  up  the  back. 

Adam  offered  no  help  whatever  in  carrying  on 
the  conversation.  He  sat  in  his  desk-chair  with 
folded  hands,  now  and  again  twiddling  his  thumbs 
agitatedly.  There  were  lines  in  his  face  Gudrun  had 
not  seen  before ;  and  once,  when  her  mind,  wander 
ing  from  the  purely  conventional  talk  which  did  not 
need  its  presence,  recurred  to  the  violent  scene  of 
parental  despair,  and  her  eyes  unconsciously  sought 
out  the  pastor,  Adam's  eyes  tried  stubbornly  to 


50  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

meet  hers,  and  fell.  The  pastor  was  evidently 
ashamed  of  himself. 

And  the  conversation  still  dragged  and  Gudrun 
began  to  contemplate  flight.  But  a  pot  on  the  kitchen 
stove  saved  the  situation. 

The  pot  was  boiling  over.  It  was  the  pot  con 
taining  the  cabbage  cooking  in  scorched  milk  and 
under  Esperanza's  eagle  eye  had  merely  simmered 
hitherto.  A  stern  hissing  accompanied  by  an  espe 
cially  pungent  gust  of  cabbage-fragrance  told  the 
story.  Esperanza  leaped  to  her  feet  with  a  mumbled 
apology  and  fled,  revealing  to  all  the  incomplete 
ness  of  her  toilet.  In  her  hurry  and  embarrass 
ment  she  knocked  over  a  chair  loaded  with  crockery 
in  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  fine  crash.  And,  of 
course,  the  baby  cradled  by  the  kitchen  stove  awoke 
and  set  up  a  most  piercing  howl. 

Gudrun  cast  her  Young  Man  a  comical  glance 
that  might  have  meant  a  great  many  things.  It 
might  have  said:  "What  do  you  think  of  this  fam 
ily?"  or  it  might  have  said:  "What  do  you  think  of 
married  life?"  And  it  might  have  said:  "This  is 
better  than  wet  blankets  at  the  Manor-house  and  we 
wouldn't  be  allowed  to  be  alone  together  anyway. 
I'm  going  to  make  a  lark  of  it."  Undoubtedly, 
all  of  these  profound  communications  were  in  the 
back  of  Gudrun's  head,  and  in  fragmentary  form 
and  somewhat  vaguely  they  leapt  the  gap  to  Jim- 
mie's.  He  smiled  back.  That  smile  said:  "This 
bunch  is  a  dream.  Go  ahead.  I'm  having  the  time 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  51 

of  my  life."  There  was  a  postscript  in  the  form  of 
an  almost  imperceptible  wrinkle  of  a  nostril  which 
Gudrun  interpreted:  "Drop  cabbage  out  of  win 
dow."  She  laughed  suddenly,  so  that  the  pastor, 
who  was  gloomily  sorting  his  papers,  looked  up 
questioningly.  A  second  later  she  had  disappeared. 
Adam  thought  the  lamp  had  suddenly  gone  dim. 
He  sighed. 

Fraulein  Gudrun  had  gone  to  help  his  wife.  That 
was  very  kind  of  the  manor-lady,  thought  the  pas 
tor,  but  where  did  it  leave  him?  Here  he  was  alone 
with  a  stranger,  a  foreigner — and  no  means  of  com 
munication  at  all.  He  made  a  helpless  gesture  or 
two  that  to  the  Coloradan  were  very  comic. 

"Don't  mind  me,  old  man,"  he  said.  "I'm  very 
comfortable.  And  I've  got  more  things  to  think 
about  than  I  could  pack  in  a  year's  silence." 

The  pastor  understood  the  tone  but  not  at  all  the 
words.  He  smiled  feebly,  inwardly  resenting  the 
American's  composure,  while  he  envied  him  for  it. 
But  an  inspiration  came  to  him. 

"Esperanza,"  called  the  pastor,  opening  the 
kitchen  door.  "Bring  us  sherry  and  two  glasses." 

Hammerdale  tried  to  call  a  halt,  for  he  under 
stood  the  sherry  and  glasses.  "I  don't  want  any 
sherry,  no,  honestly.  Please  don't  get  it  for  me. 
Your  wife  is  so  busy." 

The  pastor  did  not  understand  even  the  tone  this 
time,  or  pretended  not  to.  The  American  stared 
at  him,  inwardly  muttering,  "The  damn  brute!" 


52  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

and  desiring  deeply  to  turn  the  reverend  gentlemen 
over  his  knee ;  at  the  same  time  regarding  him  with 
the  sort  of  wonder  with  which  he  regarded  Indians, 
Orientals  and  other  aliens  whose  point  of  view 
he  could  not  hope  to  find.  Esperanza  came  in, 
dutifully  bearing  a  tray  with  a  bottle  and  two 
glasses  (not  without  finger-marks)  ;  and  went, 
swiftly  and  without  a  word,  as  a  good  servant 
should. 

The  sherry  was  extraordinarily  fine,  as  even  the 
American,  whose  knowledge  of  beverages  was  based 
on  a  distant  though  at  the  time  complete  study  of 
mining-town  whiskies,  noted  at  once;  and  he  won 
dered  at  its  presence  in  this  dingy  parsonage.  But 
the  private  cellar-mark  of  the  Manor  about  the 
neck  explained  that;  and  Adam  could  have  told  him 
that  it  was  a  relic  of  a  Christmas  box  of  two  years 
past.  The  pastor  sipped  the  wine  noisily  and  with 
evident  relish;  and  Hammerdale  produced  cigars. 
The  pastor  smiled  a  broad  smile  of  appreciation 
that  showed  his  large,  uneven,  battered  teeth  and 
seemed  curiously  to  broaden  and  flatten  his  sallow 
face.  He  lit  the  long  Havana  slowly,  as  if  to  drag 
out  the  luxury  of  the  experience;  then  passed  the 
matches  to  his  guest.  He  was  at  ease  at  last,  find 
ing  it  not  difficult  at  all  to  be  silent  through  an  aura 
of  smoke;  and  puffed  stolidly.  The  American,  even 
under  ordinary  circumstances  a  man  of  tremendous 
silences  (for  he  had  been  bred  among  mountains), 
drew  a  long  breath,  opened  a  sluice  somewhere  in 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  53 

his  head  and  luxuriously  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
as  the  tide  of  dreams  rushed  in. 

In  the  adjoining  kitchen  Gudrun  was  battling  with 
her  not  always  controllable  tongue.  The  squalor 
of  the  place  brought  horror  to  her  soul.  She  was 
an  excellent  housekeeper  herself.  For  years  now 
she  had  carried  the  keys  of  the  secret  places  jingling 
in  her  apron-pocket,  and  man,  woman  and  germ  in 
the  Manor-house  flew  at  her  bidding,  adoringly  but 
not  without  fear.  For  she  was  born  with  the  Hal- 
lern  temper,  which  the  uncles,  aunts  and  cousins  of 
the  family  considered  an  ancestral  glory  to  be  passed 
on  undiminished  from  generation  to  generation;  but 
which  Gudrun  viewed  as  a  humiliating  heritage  of 
a  line  of  self-centered  martinets,  a  barbaric  thing  to 
be  ashamed  of  and  to  crush. 

She  knew  perfectly  well  what  she  would  do  if 
she  ever  found  a  servant  of  hers  smugly  contented 
in  a  Gehenna  like  the  parsonage  kitchen.  She  would 
box  her  ears  first  and  send  her  to  her  room  for  the 
day  on  bread  and  water.  Then,  when  she  was  sure 
of  her  own  control,  she  would  deliver  the  damsel  an 
address  on  the  cleanliness  which  is  not  next  to  godli 
ness  but  is  godliness,  that  that  lady  would  pass  on 
to  her  children  and  children's  children  to  the  fourth 
and  fifth  generation.  Obviously,  she  could  do  noth 
ing  of  the  sort  with  the  little  Frau  Pastorin.  A 
tenderness,  moreover,  which  she  never  let  herself 
feel  for  her  servants  (lest  affection  ruin  the  service 


54  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

and  so  the  servant) ,  possessed  her  for  this  helpless 
creature  of  babies  and  unwashed  dishes.  The  sud 
den  intrusion  of  the  pastor,  with  his  calling  for 
sherry  as  though  he  were  in  a  restaurant,  heightened 
this  feeling.  "Oh,  men  are  selfish  beasts !"  she  cried 
impetuously  over  the  cradle. 

Esperanza  let  a  plate  that  she  was  washing  fall 
and  break  in  her  horror.  "Oh,  Fraulein  Gudrun!" 
she  cried,  inexpressibly  shocked. 

Gudrun  smiled  to  herself  and  thought  of  her  own 
Young  Man.  "Some  men,  I  mean,"  she  added. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  some  men,"  said  Esperanza 
and  went  on  with  her  dishes.  Gudrun  regarded  her, 
marveling  that  such  blind  devotion  could  be. 

The  baby  would  not  be  quieted  by  the  mere  rock 
ing  of  the  cradle,  so  Gudrun  took  him  up  in  her 
arms,  feeling  a  sudden  thrill  at  the  wriggle  and 
squirm  of  arms  and  legs.  Such  a  wonderful  mech 
anism,  she  thought,  and  such  a  mite  of  a  body.  The 
mechanism  included  lungs,  and  vigorous  ones  at 
that.  Gudrun  laughed  at  the  black  cavity  of  the 
screaming  mouth,  at  the  tight  little  pig's-eyes,  at  the 
funny  nose  that  wasn't  a  nose  at  all,  but  only  a 
hope.  And  she  sat  down  and  turned  the  infant  on 
his  stomach  as  she  had  seen  real  mothers  do,  and 
paddled  him  with  infinite  tenderness  to  the  tune  of  a 
Brahms  lullaby. 

Guten  Abend,  gut'  Nacht! 
Mit  Rosen  bedacht, 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  55 

Mit  Naglein  besteckt 
Schlupf  unter  die  Deck': 
Morgen  friih,  wenn  Gott  will, 
Wirst  du  wieder  geweckt. 

Guten  Abend,  gut'  Nacht! 
Von  Englein  bewacht, 
Die  zeigen  im  Traum 
Dir  Christkindleins  Baum: 
Schlaf  nun  selig  und  suss, 
Schau  im  Traum's  Paradies. 

The  yowling  could  not  hold  out  long  against  the 
lullaby.  The  baby  opened  his  watery  eyes  once  and 
closed  them  again,  evidently  satisfied.  Gudrun  felt 
a  sudden  rush  of  love  to  her  lips  and  she  kissed  the 
child  with  a  passion  that  surprised  the  little  Frau 
Pastorin  at  the  sink,  and  surprised  and  annoyed  her 
self  when  the  wave  receded  and  left  her  for  a  mo 
ment  cold.  She  was  sure  the  child's  mother  was 
thinking  her  affected  or  at  best  extremely  gushing. 
For  a  minute  she  stared  across  the  room,  biting  her 
lips.  What  a  fool  she  was,  her  eyes  said. 

The  baby  was  asleep  and  did  not  stir;  and  grad 
ually  the  regular  breathing  became  in  turn  a  lul 
laby  to  her  suddenly  ruffled  spirits.  When  Es- 
peranza  was  not  looking  she  drew  the  child  closer; 
and  when  the  mother  turned  again  she  pretended  he 
was  not  yet  asleep  to  draw  out  a  little  the  piercing 
joy  of  the  warm  body  in  her  arms.  Her  analytical 
mood  had  quite  passed  by,  supplanted  by  a  tender- 


56  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

ness  less  tempestuous  than  the  last  but  deeper  and 
more  poignant.  Throughout  her  being  seemed  to 
wake  one  voice  after  another  as  the  light  crept  up 
and  filled  the  shadowy  places.  It  was  like  a  June 
dawn  in  her — birds  everywhere  and  morning  wind 
and  indescribable  fragrance,  and  each  leaf  coming 
to  glory  in  the  gradual  day-rise. 

Gudrun  had  held  babies  before,  impersonally  and 
as  a  matter  of  duty,  but  with  little  even  of  the  con 
ventional  tenderness  demanded  by  society  in  the  pres 
ence  of  these  marvelous  little  torch-bearers.  She 
had  never  thought  about  motherhood  very  seriously. 
You  married  and  then  you  had  babies,  one,  two, 
three,  four  and  so  on.  Now  and  then  one  died. 
That  was  too  bad,  but  not  a  matter  to  pale  and 
pine  over  as  she  had  seen  bereaved  mothers  do.  The 
supply  was  so  evidently  inexhaustible.  On  the 
whole,  babies  had  seemed  to  her  the  rather  decidedly 
earthly  part  of  an  otherwise  heavenly  prospect. 

Gudrun  smiled  dimly,  scarce  knowing  that  she 
smiled,  at  her  own  foolish  misconceptions,  going  a 
little  cold  as  she  remembered  what  she  had  thought 
(centuries  ago)  about  babies  dying.  How  very 
young  she  had  been  until  this  afternoon.  She 
thought  of  foolish,  harmless  things  she  had  said  and 
done  even  this  very  day,  and  they  seemed  remote 
as  if  they  had  happened  in  another  existence.  Years 
of  experience  seemed  to  have  passed  since  she  had 
broken  with  that  self-centered  middle  period  of 
youth  on  the  bench  in  the  snowy  woods. 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  57 

Distantly,  like  the  half-heard  patter  of  children's 
feet  running  from  afar,  the  mother-rapture  woke  in 
her.  Her  heart  fluttered  and  seemed  to  stop,  then 
beat  into  wild  tunes,  and  joy  that  burned  like  white 
steel,  and  made  the  tears  spring  in  her  eyes,  made  her 
throat  husky  and  silenced  her  song.  She  shouted  in 
her  soul,  a  child,  a  child !  It  was  all  so  natural,  so 
like  the  procession  of  the  stars — love  and  then  the 
rapture  of  love  returned  and  then  the  yearning  for 
the  child.  The  wonder  of  the  divine  succession 
rushed  through  her  being  like  a  great  wind.  The 
tears  flooded  her  eyes  and  ran  in  rivers  down  her 
cheeks. 

Esperanza  looked  up  from  her  dishes  at  the  sound 
of  a  sobbing  sniffle  meant  to  stem  the  deluge;  and 
stared  in  amazement.  "Oh,"  she  cried  with  instant 
sympathy.  "You  are  unhappy."  She  dried  her  hands 
hurriedly  on  her  apron  and  tried  to  lift  the  child 
from  Gudrun's  arms.  Gudrun  held  him  a  second 
pressed  close  to  her  breast  before  she  yielded  him; 
and  it  seemed  strangely  as  though  she  were  giving 
up  a  child  of  her  own  when  Esperanza  picked  him 
up,  rather  ungently,  and  laid  him,  soundly  sleeping, 
in  the  crib.  And  still  the  tears  flowed. 

Esperanza  knelt  down  beside  her.  "You  are  un 
happy,"  she  repeated,  assertion  of  the  fact  and  query 
as  to  the  cause  both  in  her  voice. 

Gudrun  managed  at  last  to  smile,  and  her  smile 
opened  dim,  unexplored  chambers  in  Esperanza's 
heart,  for  it  was  all  the  world  like  the  long,  golden 


58  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

shaft  that  breaks  the  cloudbank  after  a  rainy  day. 
The  tear-stained  cheeks  shone  with  it  like  wet  foli 
age.  The  dark  eyes  wonderfully  shone,  and  over 
the  whole  face  was  the  radiance  of  a  joy  so  deep 
that  it  was  almost  impersonal;  a  hallowed  joy,  in 
which  the  merely  earthly  Gudrun,  that  ate  and  drank 
and  ordered  dresses  from  Berlin,  dwindled  into  in 
significance,  and  the  immortal  being  that  loved  and 
aspired  stood  in  the  little  kitchen  like  a  white  tower 
of  light.  Gudrun,  holding  the  babe  in  her  arms, 
had  surely  come  face  to  face  with  the  eternities. 

Esperanza  did  not  repeat  her  question.  It  was 
not  necessary  that  she  should,  and,  besides,  her  own 
voice  was  suddenly  unmanageable  and  would  not 
utter  any  words  at  all.  For  she  was  awed.  These 
tears  of  the  Manor-lady  were  tears  of  joy,  she  re 
alized  to  her  own  amazement;  and  such  tears  she 
had  never  shed. 

"I  am  so  happy,"  Gudrun  said  at  last  with  a  queer 
vibration  in  her  tones  that  lost  itself  between  a  sob 
and  a  giggle.  "I've  just  got  engaged.  I  didn't 
think  he  loved  me.  He  told  me  that  he  did,  but  I 
never  quite  believed  it  could  be  true.  I'm  so  dif 
ferent  from  the  women  he's  known  all  his  life — 
splendid,  free  women,  oh,  so  much  stronger  and 
bigger  than  I.  But  he  does  love  me.  The  way  he 
looked  at  me  in  the  woods  made  me  see.  So  it's 
all  settled."  She  pulled  herself  together  and  added, 
with  a  foolish  attempt  at  brusqueness,  "It  was  that 
bawling  brat  of  yours  that  made  me  cry." 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  59 

Esperanza  did  not  quite  dare  to  embrace  Gudrun, 
but  she  came  very  close.  "Perhaps  you  will  have  a 
little  one  some  day,"  she  whispered  faintly  as  if  she 
feared  that  the  furniture  would  throw  up  hands  and 
feet  in  horror  at  her  indiscretion. 

Gudrun,  strong  and  stalwart,  laid  her  arms  about 
the  little  woman  as  a  comforting  big  brother  might, 
staring  through  the  walls  at  the  dimly  discerned  par 
adise.  "That's  what  I  was  thinking,"  she  said. 

Esperanza  was  just  a  little  bit  shocked  that  a 
newly  engaged  girl  should  have  such  thoughts;  but 
she  pressed  Gudrun's  hand,  nevertheless.  And  Gud 
run  kissed  her;  and  they  were  both  amazingly  happy. 

Gradually,  as  her  exalted  mood  faded  into  a 
bright  rosy  background,  Gudrun  took  in  her  sur 
roundings  once  more.  Her  first  marvel  was  that  so 
poverty-stricken  a  parsonage  could  contain  so  many 
receptacles  for  grease  and  dust;  but  she  remembered 
that  the  wife  of  Adam's  predecessor,  a  childless  old 
lady  who  had  died  at  Wenkendorf,  had  come  from  a 
rather  well-to-do  family  in  the  neighboring  town 
and,  having  inherited  a  houseful  of  kitchen  utensils, 
had  thus  remotely  been  the  cause  of  Esperanza's 
fall  from  domestic  virtue.  There  was  pretty  china 
here,  all  nicked,  alas,  and  all  helter-skelter;  bits  of 
true  onion-pattern  and  even  a  battered  half  dozen 
French  plates  and  an  English  piece  or  two,  all  look 
ing  very  cast-down  and  forlorn  as  though  they  knew 
they  were  members  of  a  noble  line  who  had  started 


60  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

life  brightly,  but  had  made  a  mess  of  it.  There  was 
no  denying  the  mess.  Gudrun  only  marveled  at 
Esperanza's  courage  in  attacking  it  at  all,  however 
ineffectively. 

Her  housewifely  instincts  rose  as  to  a  challenge 
and  her  energy,  never  lagging,  and  now  stimulated 
to  fresh  power  by  her  happiness,  responded  as  a 
sail  responds  to  the  wind.  She  tied  on  an  apron  that 
she  discovered  doing  duty  as  a  dish-cloth  and  plunged 
in. 

"Oh,  Fraulein  Gudrun/*  protested  the  parsonage 
lady.  "You  mustn't." 

"Frau  Pastorin,"  responded  Gudrun,  elbow-deep 
in  greasy  water.  "I  can't  help  it." 

Esperanza  cast  an  uneasy  glance  at  her  visitor, 
for  she  seemed  to  note  the  faintest  hint  of  reproach 
in  her  tones.  "There  are  so  many  dishes,"  she 
said,  with  a  sigh  which  comically  suggested  that 
she  was  uttering  a  philosophic  generalization.  Her 
momentary  glow  of  happiness  went  out.  She  won 
dered  dejectedly  whether  the  Manor-lady  was  think 
ing  her  shiftless.  It  was  an  uncomfortable  thing  to 
have  to  worry  about;  but,  fortunately,  at  that  mo 
ment  Adam  opened  the  door  and  cast  the  two  weary 
infants  neck  and  crop  into  the  kitchen.  She  had  an 
excellent  excuse  therefore  for  forgetting  her  dejec 
tion  and  the  troublesome  dishes,  which  she  did 
promptly;  applying  herself  with  fussy  vigor  to  the 
children's  supper. 

Gudrun  washed  and  washed.     She  suspected  that 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  61 

Esperanza  would  not  miss  her  conversation,  so  she 
let  her  mind  slip  into  pleasant  sun  and  shadow  places, 
dewy  and  fragrant,  where  it  seemed  to  find  another 
mind  awaiting  it  that  spoke  to  it  many  delectable 
things.  And  the  dishes  seemed  to  pass  from  squalor 
to  brightness  scarcely  less  quickly  than  her  thoughts. 
Esperanza  was  amazed  after  she  had  filled  the  chil 
dren's  plates  with  cabbage  and  other  indigestible 
things  ten  minutes  later  to  see  how  one  pile  of  dishes 
and  pans  under  the  sink  had  dwindled. 

"How  quickly  you  work!"  she  cried  enviously. 

Gudrun  laughed.  "Oh,  it's  as  easy  to  do  them 
quickly  as  slowly." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Esperanza  dubiously,  as 
though  the  idea  had  not  quite  filtered. 

There  was  a  bawl  from  the  table.  Young  Adam 
had  made  a  lunge  for  a  piece  of  sausage  on  Klar- 
chen's  plate,  and  Klarchen  was  protesting  vocifer 
ously. 

"I'll  go  on  with  the  washing,"  said  Esperanza 
after  she  had  arbitrated  the  quarrel,  "if  you  would 
be  so  kind  as  to  watch  the  children." 

Gudrun  thought  the  time  had  come  to  inject  a 
truth.  "No,  I'll  stay  right  where  I  am.  I  find  it's 
best  to  do  one  thing  at  a  time  or  I  never  do  get 
through." 

"I  suppose  that  is  a  good  idea,"  said  Esperanza 
slowly,  as  she  sat  down  beside  the  children. 

The  bird  on  the  little  cuckoo-clock  from  the  Black 
Forest,  which  had  been  the  pastor's  gift  to  his  bride 


62  FACES   IN  THE   DAWN 

at  their  wedding,  flung  open  his  shutter,  cuckooed 
six  times  and  retired  behind  a  slammed  door. 

"Donnerwetter!"  cried  Gudrun,  forgetting  her 
manners  but  not  her  dish-washing.  "I  didn't  know 
it  was  so  late.  They'll  be  worrying  at  home,  I'm 
afraid." 

"You  have  been  so  good,"  said  Esperanza,  as 
she  rose  from  her  seat  behind  the  babes.  Her  voice 
was  low  and  humble  and  very  grateful.  uYou 
washed  so  many  dishes." 

Gudrun  was  still  elbow-deep  in  dish-water,  the 
splash-rub-clatter,  splash-rub-clatter,  as  each  dish 
was  drawn  out  of  Avernus,  dried  and  laid  shining  as 
a  saved  soul  among  its  redeemed  fellows,  going  with 
the  regularity  of  a  gasoline  engine  trained  never  to 
miss  a  jump.  And  she  did  no  more  than  raise  her 
head  and  laugh  softly  as  the  study  door  opened  and 
Hammerdale  appeared,  stared  and  smiled  amusedly 
at  the  very  domestic  scene  and  particularly  at  his 
particular  lady  splash-rub-clattering  by  the  sink. 
"Little  lady,"  he  remarked,  "don't  you  think  there'll 
be  the  riot  act  at  home  if  we  don't  beat  it  pretty 
soon?  It's  six  and  we  were  due  at  four-thirty." 

He  cocked  his  head  a  little  to  one  side  in  the 
manner  of  an  aesthete  studying  the  color-values  of 
a  sunset.  "Remember,  they  don't  know  yet  that  I've 
taken  on  forever  and  ever  full  responsibility  for  your 
well-being;  though  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  sus 
pected  my  aspirations  in  that  direction  since  I've  lit 
tle-yellow-dogged  your  trail  for  some  six  thousand 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  63 

five  hundred  miles."  He  spoke  slowly,  luxuriously, 
somewhat  the  way  the  pastor  in  the  next  room  was 
smoking,  as  if  it  were  a  new  pleasure  to  talk  openly 
of  these  things  and  he  wanted  to  draw  it  out. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  home,"  said  Gudrun  in  the 
same  half-stifled  tones  she  had  used  as  they  stood  in 
the  snow  outside  the  Manor  gates  an  hour  or  so 
before.  "I  don't  want  to  have  to  tell  them — about 
us,  yet.  I  don't  want  to  be  dragged  out  of  the  stars 
into  a  family  conference,  dear.  You  don't  know  our 
family  conferences."  Her  face  was  wistful  as  it 
bent  over  the  dishes  but  brightened  as  she  added, 
"and  I  do  want  to  get  these  dishes  washed  for 


once." 


She  spoke  English,  of  course,  so  Esperanza,  who 
was  watching  the  two,  fascinated  by  the  easy  com- 
panionableness,  could  only  stare  but  could  feel  no 
offense. 

"I  tell  you,"  Gudrun  cried  with  a  joyous  impulse. 
uYou  go  home  and  say  the  pastor  has  invited  us  for 
supper,  and  I  can't  refuse.  They'll  protest,  of 
course,  but  you'll  fix  things  up.  They  do  respect  you 
so  much  more  than  they  do  me — you  distinguished 
foreigner."  This  last  with  half  a  sigh.  Then  she 
turned  to  Esperanza.  "I  am  having  such  a  happy 
time.  May  we  stay  to  supper?" 

Esperanza  looked  at  her  rather  stupidly  and  tried 
to  conceal  her  embarrassment  by  tucking  one  of 
many  wayward  strands  of  hair  in  the  place  approxi 
mately  where  it  had  started  the  day.  "You  are  very 


64  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

kind,"  she  said.  "We  have  so  little  to  offer.  But 
we  shall  be  greatly  honored." 

"I'd  rather  you'd  be  pleased,"  Gudrun  said, 
smiling. 

The  little  woman  looked  into  her  eyes  very  simply 
and  whole-heartedly.  "You  know  I  am  pleased." 

Gudrun's  faintly  patronizing  smile  at  the  parson 
age  lady's  confusion  faded  before  the  sudden,  open 
simplicity  of  her  manner  and  the  look  of  devotion  in 
her  eyes.  "Run  to  the  house  as  fast  as  you  can, 
Jimmie,"  she  said.  "And  run  back  faster.  Bye- 
bye!"  Jimmie  went,  but  she  ran  after  him  to  the 
door.  "Don't  forget  to  put  on  your  rubbers,"  she 
called. 

"Got  'em  on !"  came  back  the  cheerful  answer. 

"Good-bye!"  she  called  again,  forgetting  quite 
that  there  was  a  sleeping  baby  within  six  feet  of 
her.  "And  come  back  soon!"  She  hesitated,  then, 
remembering  that  English  was  safe  in  the  parsonage, 
shouted  boldly,  "Sweetheart!" 

You  would  have  thought  the  Manor-house  was 
thirty  miles  away.  By  the  short-cut  over  the  wall 
and  through  the  orchard  it  was  exactly  three  hun 
dred  yards. 


CHAPTER    IV 

IN   WHICH    A   DREAM    COMES    TO    LIFE    AND    PROVES 
DISTURBING 

IT  was  a  full  half  hour  before  Hammerdale  re 
turned,  rosy  with  the  snowflakes  on  his  cheeks. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  seemed  slow,"  he  said,  as  he  drew 
off  his  rubbers,  indicating  each,  as  he  removed  it, 
with  a  special  gesture  that  was  meant  to  imply  that 
he  was  the  most  obedient  of  lovers.  "I  made  the 
trip  going  and  coming  under  the  record,  but  your 
father  and  mother,  and  particularly  your  mother, 
seemed  to  want  a  rather  lengthy  explanation  as  to 
whys  and  wherefores." 

Gudrun,  persistent  as  time,  was  still  washing 
dishes,  and  looked  up  from  the  dish-pan  with  a  cloud 
in  her  glance.  "I  was  afraid  of  that." 

"Your  mother,  I  regret  to  state,"  Hammerdale 
continued  in  a  slightly  harder  tone  than  was  usual 
with  him,  "suspected  that  I  had  you  off  somewhere 
unchaperoned.  I  explained  at  length." 

Gudrun  did  not  look  up  this  time.  "I  am  sorry. 
I  wish  she  had  trusted  us,"  she  said,  and  her  voice, 
too,  was  a  little  hard.  "Ever  since  I  broke  my  en- 

65 


66  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

gagement  to  Max  it  has  been  an  obsession  with 
mother  that  everything  I  do  is  naturally  wrong  be 
cause  I  do  it." 

"She  was  pleasant  enough  about  it." 

"Of  course.     Dear  mother,  she  can't  be  severe." 

Esperanza,  entering  from  upstairs,  where  she  had 
put  her  two  elder  jewels  to  bed,  saw  that  they  were 
troubled,  and  thought  in  her  blessed  innocence  that 
Hammerdale  was  peevish  because  supper  was  not 
ready. 

"He  must  be  hungry,"  she  said  to  Gudrun.  "Tell 
him  we'll  have  things  ready  soon." 

Gudrun  kissed  her.  "You  dear  thing!"  she 
cried. 

Esperanza,  as  it  proved,  was  oversanguine,  for 
it  took  her  another  stiff  half  hour  to  set  the  table 
and  make  what  was  still  to  make  of  the  supper. 
Gudrun  did  not  help  her.  She  stayed  tenaciously 
by  her  dishes,  allowing  the  splash-rub-clatter  to  be 
disturbed  not  even  by  the  presence  of  her  Young 
Man.  That  gentleman  watched  her  for  three  full 
minutes  in  silence. 

"You're  a  wonder!"  he  finally  cried.  "Give  me 
a  towel." 

She  handed  him  something  that  did  service  as  a 
dishcloth.  "Good  boy!"  she  whispered. 

But  Esperanza  was  shocked.  She  went  up  to 
Hammerdale  and  tried  to  take  the  cloth  from  his 
hand.  "No,  no,  no,  no !"  she  cried  seriously.  "Tell 
him  no,  Fraulein  Gudrun.  It  is  not  proper." 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  67 

Gudrun  explained.  Hammerdale  regarded  the 
parsonage  lady  with  a  look  of  comic  protest,  and 
persisted. 

"No!"  cried  Esperanza. 

Jimmie,  however,  would  not  be  budged,  and  Gud 
run  laughed  softly  and  happily  to  herself.  Finally 
she  turned  to  Esperanza.  "He's  a  good  man,  don't 
you  think?" 

"No  man  should  wash  dishes,"  Esperanza  replied, 
a  little  piqued,  and  bustled  about  the  stove. 

Pastor  Adam  joined  the  kitchen-party  when  the 
inner  call,  which  was  much  more  regular  than  Es- 
peranza's,  told  him  that  it  was  seven-thirty.  He 
opened  the  door  slowly  and  filled  the  opening  once 
more  with  his  enormous  black  bulk.  "Is  supper 
ready?"  he  asked. 

"In  a  minute,  Adam,"  said  Esperanza,  leaning 
over  her  dishes  very  red-faced  from  the  heat  of  the 
stove  and  the  general  excitement. 

"It  is  time,"  he  answered.  His  glance,  beating 
down  on  his  wife  like  a  steamer  searchlight  on  a 
tossing  dory,  shifted  toward  the  sink,  hung  there  a 
moment  and  shifted  back. 

"Since  when,  Esperanza,"  said  the  pastor  in  slow, 
sharp  tones,  "do  you  make  young  gentlemen  wash 
your  dishes  for  you?" 

Gudrun  threw  back  her  head,  laughing.  "I'm 
washing  the  dishes.  He's  just  helping  me.  He  in 
sisted.  Crazy  boy,  isn't  he?" 

The  pastor  did  not  smile  at  all.    He  looked,  in- 


68  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

deed,  as  though  the  earth  had  opened  and  allowed 
his  estimation  of  Hammerdale  to  drop  through  to 
China. 

The  supper  was  finally  ready,  and  served  in  the 
little  dining-room  across  the  hall,  where  an  oil-lamp 
hung  high  over  the  table,  shedding  an  uncozy  light 
over  the  heavy  furniture  and  crazily  papered  walls. 
The  decorations  were  what  one  would  expect  from 
Esperanza — on  one  wall  a  chromo  of  the  Kaiser 
Wilhelm  Gedachtniss  Kirche  with  an  inserted  por 
trait  of  the  pious  Empress  in  a  very  unpious  looking 
plumed  hat;  and  on  another  an  embroidered  motto: 
Was  Gott  tut  das  ist  wohl  getan,  a  nebulous  state 
ment,  which  in  the  code  of  the  parsonage  meant  that 
the  pastor's  grumps  were  a  special  dispensation  of 
Providence  for  the  spiritual  exaltation  of  Esperanza, 
and  must  in  no  wise  be  interfered  with. 

The  room  was  aggressively  uncomfortable,  as 
Gudrun  and  Hammerdale  discovered  before  they 
had  crossed  the  threshold.  The  lamp  flickered  and 
smoked  in  its  blackened  chimney,  the  figured  red  ta 
ble-cloth  was  soiled  and,  worst  of  all,  the  fire  in 
the  porcelain  tomb  was  on  its  last  legs. 

"Esperanza,"  asked  the  pastor  in  his  stern  tones, 
"did  you  let  the  fire  go  out?" 

Esperanza  opened  the  little  brass  door  and  peeped 
in.  "It  went  out  by  itself,"  she  said,  implying  that 
she  had  lent  no  aid  in  that  proceeding. 

One  of  the  pastor's  ominous  pauses  followed. 
Gudrun  jumped  into  it.  "The  kitchen  is  warm," 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  69 

she  cried.  "Why  shouldn't  we  have  supper 
there ?" 

"That  is  true,"  answered  Adam.  "Esperanza, 
take  the  dishes  into  the  kitchen." 

The  party  filed  back  across  the  dingy  hall,  which 
was  cold  as  Greenland,  and  Esperanza  drew  into  the 
middle  of  the  room  a  table  that  was  clear  of  soiled 
dishes  for  the  first  time  in  God  knows  how  long. 
They  seated  themselves  and  the  pastor  bowed  his 
head. 

"Lieber  Herr  Jesu,  set  Du  unser  Gastt  und  segne 
was  Du  uns  bescheret  hast,"  he  said  like  a  well-oiled 
machine.  Then  he  dived  into  his  supper. 

Conversation,  for  the  next  ten  minutes,  was  in 
abeyance,  for  Adam  and  Esperanza  were  busy,  and 
Gudrun  and  Hammerdale,  sitting  opposite  each 
other,  were  content  to  speak  with  glances  and  toe- 
pressures  full  of  meaning.  The  food  was  a  horror 
even  to  Hammerdale,  who  thought  he  had  touched 
low  water  mark  in  culinary  matters  in  Colorado  min 
ing  camps  and  on  a  certain  prospecting  tour  he  had 
taken  into  the  interior  of  Mexico,  but  admitted  to 
himself  (and  to  Gudrun  under  the  table)  that  here 
was  a  new  record.  He  made  his  way  manfully,  how 
ever,  through  sausage  and  underdone  potatoes  and 
cabbage  cooked  in  scorched  milk  and  soggy  ryebread 
as  holey  as  chickenwire,  marveling  at  the  consti 
tutions  that  bore  up  under  this  diet  day  after  day. 
He  must  have  feigned  well,  however,  for  Esperanza 
remarked  gratefully  to  Gudrun  that  her  H err  Brdu- 


70  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

tig  am  was  kind  to  enjoy  the  simple  parsonage  fare 
so  much. 

Gudrun's  head  was  full  of  flying  thoughts,  speed 
ing  with  confusing  flutter,  wing-tip  to  wing-tip,  across 
her  mental  vision.  It  seemed  to  her,  strangely,  as 
if  she  were  rediscovering  the  world,  or  rather,  as 
far  as  she  was  concerned,  discovering  it  for  the 
first  time.  Things  looked  so  very  different  to  the 
betrothed  of  Jimmie  Hammerdale  from  what  they 
looked  to  a  lonely  and  very  unimportant  spinster 
Gudrun.  As  Gudrun,  merely,  she  had  as  a  rule  ac 
cepted  her  surroundings  unquestionably,  and  when 
she  had  questioned  at  all  she  had  done  so  with  con- 
science-smitings,  deeming  herself  probably  weak  or 
indulgent  to  rebel  against  what  other  women 
through  the  centuries  had  quietly  endured.  But  mat 
ters  were  decidedly  different  now.  Unconsciously, 
she  began  to  see  things  through  Hammerdale's  eyes. 
Wondering  in  her  heart  how  this  or  that  might  look 
to  her  betrothed,  she  began  to  cast  her  glance  criti 
cally  about,  reexamining  her  world.  By  the  time 
they  were  half  through  supper  she  was  confident 
that  Jimmie  would  break  off  the  engagement.  For 
how  could  he  know  that  all  her  countrymen  did  not 
absorb  their  food  like  a  suction-pump?  She  sud 
denly  felt  herself  disliking  the  pastor  for  misrepre 
senting  her  people  so. 

When  Gudrun  thought  that  the  meal  was  far 
enough  advanced  to  admit  conversation  concerning 
other  things  than  the  meal  itself,  she  broached  the 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  71 

subject  of  the  weather.  That  failing  to  rouse  any 
active  response,  she  turned  to  innocent  village  gos 
sip,  historic  events  that  had  occurred  during  her 
absence — the  death  of  a  nonogenarian  or  two,  a  mar 
riage,  a  burglary,  and  untold  babies.  Esperanza 
glanced  toward  her  husband,  evidently  not  daring  to 
speak  before  he  had  spoken;  but  Adam  sat  silent, 
and  one  topic  after  another,  launched  by  the  now 
almost  breathless  Gudrun,  turned  turtle  as  it  struck 
the  water  and  sank  before  her  despairing  eyes. 

At  last  Adam  spoke,  breaking  into  the  midst  of 
a  story  of  Colorado  horse-thieving  that  had  never 
before  failed  to  hold  its  audience,  breaking  into  it 
as  though  Gudrun  had  been  silent  all  the  while,  wait 
ing  for  him  to  speak,  breaking  into  it  in  a  manner 
that  showed  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  he 
had  heard  not  a  solitary  word  that  Gudrun  had  been 
saying.  "And  when  are  you  to  be  married?"  he 
asked,  as  though  they  had  been  talking  of  nothing 
but  marrying  for  hours. 

Gudrun  stopped  her  story  in  the  middle  of  a  sen 
tence,  gasping  a  little  with  the  surprise  of  the  pas 
tor's  unexpected  interjection.  The  blood  rose  to 
her  forehead.  Her  attempt  at  conversation  had  evi 
dently  not  been  a  success.  She  laughed  softly  to 
hide  her  embarrassment,  and  Esperanza  thought  her 
merely  bubblingly  happy  and  glowingly  beautiful.  "I 
think — I  think — don't  you,  that  that  depends  a  little 
on  what  my  father  and  mother  have  to  say  when  we 
tell  them  our  news  ?  You  see,  Herr  Pastor,  I  have 


72  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

not  come  back  from  America  quite  as  lawless  as  you 
feared.  Over  there  parents  have  nothing  to  say  at 
all.  It's  quite  funny.  I  don't  like  it.  Parents  suf 
fer  so  much  for  their  children,  when  they  are  small, 
that  it  does  not  seem  right  that,  when  their  chil 
dren  are  grown,  they,  the  old  people,  should  be 
ignored  as  old  fossils  who  have  done  their  work  for 
the  race  and  must  make  room  for  the  young  strength. 
It  is  unjust  to  the  children,  too.  Respect  for  father 
and  mother  is  just  a  symbol  of  the  devotion  the  man 
and  woman,  when  they  go  out  into  the  world,  must 
yield  to  law  and  the  state,  to  humanity  and  beauty 
and  God.  And  American  children,  I  am  afraid,  do 
not  always  have  the  sense  of  this  devotion  that  we 
on  this  side  of  the  water  expect."  Her  voice  was 
low,  as  though  she  were  unaccustomed  to  voice  her 
opinions,  and  were  distrustful  of  their  validity.  With 
a  wistful  smile  that  was  half  apology  and  half  a 
plea  for  understanding,  and  a  flash  of  eyes  like  heat- 
lightning  through  a  black  summer  night,  she  turned 
from  her  discussion  of  general  principles  back  to 
her  own  particular  case.  "I  am  German,  and  we 
Germans  are  trained  to  obedience,  aren't  we?  Par 
ticularly  we  women.  We  are  very  docile.  Our  high 
est  joy  is  the  joy  of  loving  those  who  master  us.  At 
least,  everybody  says  so,  so  it  must  be  true."  She 
said  this  last  with  a  wistful  glance  of  sympathy 
toward  Esperanza,  and  the  faintest  shade  of  irony 
in  her  tones.  "Therefore,  I  must  be  a  good  girl, 
and  lay  my  case  before  my  parents.  But  my  Young 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  73 

Man  over  there  must  get  back  to  his  work,  and  he 
says  he  will  not  go  alone.  I  suspect  that  we  are 
going  to  have  some  drama  at  the  Manor  the  next 
week  or  two.  Father  will  approve,  I  know,  but 
Mother — well,  you  never  can  quite  tell  beforehand 
what  she  will  say.  We  may  have  to  call  you,  Herr 
Pastor,  before  Christmas  week  is  over,  to  restore 
a  Christian  harmony  befitting  the  season." 

The  pastor,  who  had  been  sitting  back  in  his  chair, 
staring  at  her  hands  that  lay  folded  in  curiously 
marble-like  whiteness  at  the  table's  edge,  lifted  his 
head,  so  that  unexpectedly  their  eyes  met.  "They 
can  refuse  you  nothing,"  he  answered. 

There  was  a  tenderness  in  the  pastor's  tone  that 
made  Hammerdale  look  up  from  his  difficult  plate, 
and  cast  a  swift,  searching  glance  at  his  host.  The 
pastor  had  evidently  forgotten  himself,  for  the  hard 
lines  about  the  eyes  and  mouth  were  amazingly  soft 
ened  and  the  flat  grossness  of  the  face  had  been 
supplanted  by  a  look  that  was  near  enough  to  no 
bility  to  satisfy  Hammerdale  that  something  was  ra 
dically  wrong  with  some  of  his  previous  judgments. 

Five,  perhaps  even  ten,  seconds  passed  before 
Gudrun  answered.  She  had  been  speaking  more  than 
half  in  jest  and  the  pastor's  sudden  seriousness  took 
her  unprepared.  She  could  not,  moreover,  throw 
his  remark  off  lightly,  for  there  was  something  close 
to  benediction  in  the  voice  that  spoke  the  everyday 
phrase.  Nor  could  she  explain  to  the  gentleman  that 
he  was  ignorant  as  a  babe  of  the  curious  workings 


74  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

of  the  minds  that  ruled  in  the  Manor-house.  So 
she  smiled  a  little  incredulously,  staring  down  long 
corridors  of  memory,  as  she  answered,  "I  wonder," 
so  softly  that  Hammerdale  scarcely  heard  it  across 
the  table. 

Adam's  eyes  seemed  to  rest  an  interminable  time 
on  Gudrun's  face.  Hammerdale  watched  them  and, 
before  Gudrun  had  spoken,  he  told  himself  that  he 
knew  Pastor  Adam's  secret. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
sound  of  Esperanza  eating  cabbage  cooked  in 
scorched  milk. 

"We  are  going  to  live  in  Colorado,"  said  Gud 
run,  drawing  her  mind  by  an  effort  out  of  its  puz 
zlement  over  the  pastor's  behavior,  "Mr.  Hammer- 
dale  has  a  ranch  there,  and  some  mines.  How  many 
acres  is  your  ranch,  Jimmie?  Is  it  five  thousand?" 
Jimmie  nodded.  "You  can't  imagine  what  a  heav 
enly  place  it  is.  We  visited  there  this  autumn.  It's 
seven  thousand  feet  high  and  round  about  are  the 
tremendous  mountains  where  Jimmie's  cattle  and 
horses  graze.  It's  miles  from  civilization,  of  course 
— a  hundred  miles  to  the  railroad  and  fifty  to  the 
nearest  village.  But  when  we  get  tired  of  each 
other,  about  once  a  year,  we  can  run  down  to  Glen- 
wood  Springs  on  horseback.  It's  only  sixty  or  sev 
enty  miles  and  it's  almost  as  stylish  as  Baden  Baden, 
as  long  as  one  does  not  run  beyond  the  hotel  gar 
dens.  And  Jimmie  has  a  piano  at  the  ranch.  It 
came  a  hundred  miles  over  desert  country  and  all 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  75 

the  ranchmen  roundabout  reckon  time  B.  P.  and  A. 
P. — before  piano  and  after  piano.  And  there  are 
horses!  There  never  were  such  horses!" 

"You  are  fortunate  to  be  able  to  go  out  into  the 
world/'  answered  Adam  slowly.  "You  will  not  be 
lonely.  You  have  much  to  draw  on  in  yourself." 

The  pastor's  serious  tones  once  more  put  a  dam 
per  on  conversation,  though  Gudrun,  trying  to  pass 
them  off  lightly,  interpreted  them  half  jokingly. 
Hammerdale  thought  to  himself  in  the  pause  that 
ensued:  "So,  that's  it,  too,  parson?  You're  not  so 
smugly  contented  here  as  I  thought.  Perhaps  it's 
the  hunger  for  the  road  that  makes  you  growl  so 
in  captivity.  The  hunger  for  the  road  is  the  devil 
when  it  gets  a  man,  isn't  it,  eh?  I've  had  it  myself, 
thank  you.  But  don't  worry  that  it'll  get  in  the  way 
of  our  lady's  happiness.  I  knocked  the  wanderlust 
on  the  head  at  the  same  time  that  I  garroted  De 
mon  Rum.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  a  fine  scrap,  but  a  man 
in  Leadville  called  me  a  damn  loafer  and,  just  be 
fore  I  was  preparing  for  suicide  by  telling  him  he 
was  a  liar,  it  fortunately  occurred  to  me  that  he 
was  perfectly  right.  So  that  man  and  I  went  into 
partnership,  and  the  Demons  had  to  vacate.  I  won 
der  what  you  would  do  if  I  started  to  call  you 
names?"  He  looked  up,  as  though  he  thought  he 
had  spoken,  and  was  expecting  an  answer.  The 
pastor's  face  was  thoughtful,  as  though  possibly  he 
had  received  Hammerdale's  message,  and  were  pon 
dering  it.  A  foot-pressure  under  the  table  brought 


76  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

a  wordless  communication  from  elsewhere.  It  said: 
"Isn't  he  queer?  I  do  my  best  to  make  talk  and  he 
squashes  it  every  time  by  some  deadly  serious  re 
mark.  I  wish  I  knew  what  he  means."  Hammer- 
dale  found  explanations  by  pedal  telegraphy  diffi 
cult,  and  sent  a  private  message  of  his  own  instead. 

Adam,  meanwhile,  was  quite  unconscious  of  the 
perturbation  he  had  created.  He  felt  stirred  by  Gud- 
run's  presence,  stirred  as  he  occasionally  felt  in 
church,  at  some  great  festival,  or  elsewhere  in  the 
presence  of  a  deep  sorrow  or  a  true  happiness.  He 
felt  a  sense  of  big  issues  in  the  air.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Providence  had  been  unusually  kind  in  let 
ting  him  be  the  one  to  know  of  Gudrun's  engagement 
before  all  others  and  to  guard  the  earliest  hours  of 
her  new  life.  His  heart  grew  warm.  After  all,  how 
unchanged  she  was,  he  mused,  a  little  sentimentally: 
in  her  snowball  mood  still  a  bit  of  the  wood-sprite, 
and,  when  her  eyes  grew  dark  and  deep  with  the 
glory  of  the  new  love,  still  the  simple,  devout  girl 
who  had  seemed  a  childish  Saint  Teresa.  The  dis 
covery  seemed  to  him  of  immense  importance,  for 
it  meant  that  the  dream-figure  was  a  living  figure 
again.  His  blood  suddenly  ran  swift.  Life  had  a 
zest  left  in  it,  after  all,  and  possibly  the  world  was 
not  entirely  perdition-bound.  Thus  his  blood  spoke. 

Gudrun  made  one  more  try  at  conversation. 
"There  is  a  fine  sense  of  freedom  in  those  lonely 
mountains,"  she  said.  "Of  freedom  and  fellowship. 
Men  and  women  seem  to  feel  that  they  are  all  work- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  77 

ing  together.  I  suppose  some  are  rich  and  some 
are  poor,  but  I  did  not  notice  any  distinctions.  And 
the  women  I  found  are  cherished,  not  as  over  here, 
because  they  are  weak  and  have  to  be  sheltered,  but 
because  they  are  strong  and  have  a  quick  sense  of 
eternal  values  that  men,  as  a  rule,  there  as  here,  lack, 
because  they  live  so  close  to  reality  that  they  are 
able  to  perceive  only  a  small  section  of.it,  perceiving 
dimly,  if  at  all,  the  relations  of  the  parts  to  each 
other  and  to  the  whole.  These  women  are  striving 
to  do  in  the  world  what  they  have  been  doing  for 
ages  past  in  the  lesser  world,  the  home — to  cherish 
and  hold  high  those  things  which  cannot  be  weighed 
on  the  scales  of  the  marketplace,  the  things  of  the 
spirit — love  for  humanity  first,  and  love  of  beauty 
and  of  clean  living  and  of  peace.  They  have  been 
about  as  successful  in  their  large  home  as  most  of 
us  old-fashioned  women  have  been  in  our  little 
homes,  but  I  suppose  the  effort  counts  somewhere, 
subjectively  if  in  no  way  else."  She  laughed  a  little 
to  hide  the  hint  of  discouragement  in  her  tones. 
"We  women  seem  to  be  eternally  doomed  to  strug 
gle  without  visible  results.  I  wonder  what  these 
American  women  will  accomplish?" 

"A  strange  land  of  Amazons,"  remarked  the  pas 
tor  disapprovingly. 

"It  is  a  strange  land,"  Gudrun  answered,  "strange 
in  some  ways  as  Patagonia.  And  the  women  aren't 
all  Amazons,  by  any  means.  Many  of  them  are  just 
the  silly  extravagant  things  this  age  seems  to  find 


78  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

particular  delight  in  breeding.  They  don't  stray 
into  the  Colorado  mountains  often,  and  when  they  do 
they  die  of  ennui  or  become  merely  bad.  And  many 
of  the  women  are  just  queer.  Jimmie's  housekeeper, 
Mrs.  Bead,  for  instance.  She  was  a  Seventh  Day 
Adventist,  and  used  to  lie  in  the  hammock  all  of 
Saturday,  giving  us  barely  enough  to  eat  to  keep 
us  from  starving;  and  then  turn  the  house  topsy 
turvy  with  washing  and  cleaning  on  Sunday.  The 
loneliness,  of  course,  encourages  eccentricity.  If 
there  were  no  people  to  laugh  at  us,  I  suppose  we 
should  all  be  even  crazier  than  we  are.  There  was 
Mrs.  Finerty,  too — Jimmie,  Mrs.  Finerty! — with 
her  ugly  face  and  her  beautiful  eyes !  She  was  rheu 
matic,  and  used  to  talk  in  the  funniest  Irish  way  of 
the  degeneration  of  these  times  and  women  voting. 
With  utter  scorn,  you  know.  But  every  November, 
Jimmie  says,  with  all  her  rheumatism  she  drives 
over  the  awful  roads  to  cast  her  vote.  Oh,  but  they 
are  dear,  heart-whole  women  out  there.  I  never 
had  half  as  many  stanch  friends  here  as  I  made  in 
Colorado  in  six  weeks ;  great  women,  not  beautiful — 
that  is,  not  what  we  call  beautiful  over  here.  Their 
beauty  is  more  like  the  beauty  of  powerful  invin 
cible  men,  the  beauty  of  erect  carriage  and  strong 
limbs  and  cheeks  burnt  by  the  sun  and  the  wind. 
I  suppose  there  is  some  devil  that  could  get  the  men 
— drink  or  fighting  or  discouragement;  but  there  is 
no  devil  made  who  could  get  those  free,  intrepid 
women."  Her  voice  was  ringing  clear  in  her  enthu- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  79 

siasm,  but  it  suddenly  dropped  as  she  added  in  tones 
that  were  half  exultation,  half  determination,  "I  am 
going  to  be  one  of  them." 

Hammerdale,  gazing  up  at  her  with  unconscious 
devotion,  understood  it  all,  though  she  spoke  Ger 
man.  To  him  who  loved  her,  and,  because  of  the 
unusual  intimacy  their  life  in  the  wilds  had  made 
inevitable,  knew  her  rather  better  than  most  men 
know  the  women  they  marry,  the  tones  of  her  voice, 
and  the  lights  and  shadows  flying  across  the  dark  of 
her  eyes,  were  almost  as  intelligible  as  her  spoken 
words.  So  he,  who  had  qualms  at  times  concerning 
the  wisdom  of  transporting  a  Baron's  daughter  to 
the  wilds  of  a  western  state,  cast  her  a  glance  of 
gratitude  and  admiration  and  devotion  all  mingled. 
Gudrun  threw  off  a  little  laugh  that  was  like  a  bit  of 
foam  blown  off  a  breaking  wave.  She  was  able  to 
imagine  that  her  enthusiasm  might  seem  absurd  to 
others.  ( Jimmie,  who  to  outward  appearance  never 
took  himself  or  anything  else  seriously,  had  uncon 
sciously  instilled  that  virtue.)  She  glanced  quickly 
at  Adam.  If  that  gentleman,  who  took  himself  in 
finitely  more  seriously  than  the  hierarchies  of  heaven 
do,  thought  her  enthusiasm  absurd,  he  was  play 
acting  very  well,  for  he  seemed  to  be  listening  at  all 
pores.  His  eyes  only  seemed  distracted,  or  per 
plexed,  perhaps,  possibly  mirroring  a  mind  that  was 
being  carried  into  new  seas  and  felt  uncomfortable  as 
the  familiar  landmarks  sank  below  the  horizon. 
Gudrun's  eyes  met  his,  and  shifted  quickly  before 


80  FACES   IN   THE    DAWN 

the  unaccountable  warmth  they  saw  there  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table.  Esperanza  had  disposed  of 
her  dose  of  cabbage  and  was  leaning  against  the 
back  of  her  chair  with  her  hands,  grasping  knife  and 
fork,  stretched  on  the  table  before  her.  She,  too, 
evidently  failed  to  find  Gudrun's  enthusiasm  absurd. 
But  she  was  not  perplexed  as  Adam  was;  her  mind 
was  not  conscious  of  perilous  seafarings.  Her  face 
was  placid,  dreamy,  absorbed,  like  the  face  of  a  child 
hearing  a  new  fairy-tale. 

Hammerdale's  foot  under  the  table  said:  "Please. 
Go  on." 

Gudrun  went  on. 

"I  met  one  girl  there.  She  was  twenty  and  not 
large  but  she  was  lithe  and  strong  as  an  antelope. 
She  drove  a  little  wagon  twenty-five  miles  every 
day,  carrying  the  mails  between  Meeker,  a  little  vil 
lage  forty-five  miles  from  the  railroad,  and  Buford, 
which  wasn't  even  a  village,  only  a  single  house, 
where  a  woman  with  many  children  ran  the  family 
and  the  post-office,  while  her  husband  went  fishing. 
The  mail-carrier-girl  had  to  pass  through  miles  and 
miles  of  rough,  uninhabited  country  and  she  car 
ried  a  revolver,  but  she  was  never  molested.  I  shall 
never  forget  her.  Her  mouth  and  nose  were  too 
large  and  her  whole  face  was  too  broad  to  be  even 
pretty,  and  her  burnt  skin  was  peeling  a  little  and 
her  brown  hair  was  bleached  by  the  sun;  but  to  me 
she  was  like  one  of  those  marble  woman-figures  in 
Athens  who  hold  up  the  pediment  of  the  temple." 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  81 

She  paused,  wondering  again  whether  she  were  let 
ting  her  enthusiasm  carry  her  too  far.  The  pastor 
nodded  his  head  ponderously  up  and  down. 

"Our  beautiful  old  German  ideal  of  women  is 
different,"  he  said.  "We  would  not  have  our  women 
carry  revolvers  and  do  man's  work.  We  honor 
them  too  much  for  that." 

Adam  was  sincere,  for  he  was  thinking  of  Gud- 
run;  but  Gudrun's  lips  contracted  a  little,  for  she 
was  thinking  of  Esperanza. 

"Different  parts  of  the  world  bring  different  con 
ditions,"  she  answered  after  a  pause.  "But  I  think 
these  men  and  women  have  much  to  teach  us  all." 

"What  could  they  teach  you?"  asked  Adam  half 
to  himself.  There  was  only  the  faintest  emphasis 
on  the  last  word,  but  enough  to  make  a  flush  rise 
to  Gudrun's  cheek.  For  an  instant  she  resented  what 
sounded  like  empty  flattery;  but  as  she  glanced  at 
Adam's  face  she  saw  how  naive  and  childlike  the 
eyes  were.  Their  simple  candor  reminded  her  that 
Adam  was  not  given  to  flattery.  She  answered  his 
question  in  low  tones. 

"They  have  already  taught  me  much.  They  have 
taught  me  that  men  and  women  must  struggle  to 
gether,  not  singly,  as  always  until  now."  She  laid 
her  clenched  hands  on  the  table  and  her  eyes  grew 
darker  as  water  does  when  the  wind  blows  over  it. 
Her  flushed  face  seemed  suddenly  a  battleground 
where  creation  was  fighting  chaos. 

"Together,  together!"     Her  voice  was  low,  but 


82  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

still  her  words  were  like  a  cry.  "Not  Esperanza  by 
herself,  not  my  mother  by  herself,  my  father  by  him 
self,  not  I  by  myself,  not  the  thousands  and  thou 
sands  of  men  and  women  who  slave  from  the  time 
their  bit  of  childhood  ends  to  the  day  they  die,  by 
themselves,  always  by  themselves.  Together!  If 
men  and  women  could  only  realize  that  they  are 
unhappy  not  because  life  is  inevitably  bitter,  but 
rather  because  they  so  tragically  isolate  themselves 
and  each  other.  Doesn't  it  seem  foolish?  We  are 
all  so  pathetically  solitary." 

"Ah,  but  Fraulein  Gudrun,"  said  the  pastor,  a 
kindly  gleam  in  his  gray-green  eyes,  "we  struggle  on 
as  we  must,  the  man  in  the  storms  of  the  world,  the 
woman  in  her  home.  It  has  always  been  so,  each, 
yes,  each  solitary,  each  in  his  world." 

Gudrun  leaned  toward  him  in  her  eagerness,  so 
that  in  the  thrill  of  her  nearness  Adam's  head  sud 
denly  swam  and,  forgetting  all  philosophies,  he  could 
think  only  of  her  hair  and  her  eyes  and  her  flaming 
cheeks  and  the  love  that  was  kindling  his  being  and 
making  him  think  he  was  twenty-one.  "There  are 
not  two  worlds,"  she  cried,  "one  outside  the  house 
and  one  inside,  there  are  not  two  struggles.  There 
is  only  one  struggle,  the  struggle  for  spiritual 
growth,  and  none  of  us  can  fight  it  for  the  others, 
but  none  of  us  can  fight  it  alone." 

The  pastor  did  not  try  to  reply.  Gudrun's  words 
seemed  to  come  from  far  away.  A  rosy  haze  seemed 
to  hang  between  them  and  his  consciousness,  a  glow 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  83 

that  was  youth,  and  he  sat,  luxuriously  silent,  fearing 
to  shatter  it  with  the  sound  of  his  own  harsh  voice. 
He  stared  at  Gudrun,  then  at  the  table,  and  at  last, 
like  a  surprise,  came  the  realization  that  he  was  not 
supposed  to  sit  there  mute.  He  tried  to  frame  an 
answer,  but  he  could  think  of  nothing  save  the  war 
rior  look  on  Gudrun's  face  as  she  spoke.  She  was 
not  a  dream-figure  any  more,  she  was  not  a  marble 
statue  on  a  pedestal.  She  was  a  glowing  comrade 
in  the  battle,  as  much  in  need  of  spiritual  exaltation 
as  himself.  The  knowledge  brought  a  sudden  sense 
of  fellowship  that  he  had  never  felt  for  her  before. 
Her  words  came  to  him  clearly  now,  filtering  through 
the  haze:  "There  is  only  one  struggle,  the  struggle 
for  spiritual  growth,  and  none  of  us  can  fight  it  for 
the  others,  but  none  of  us  can  fight  it  alone."  Like 
the  rushing  of  unexpected  winds  the  cry  swept 
through  his  being:  "Why,  dear  God,  could  you  not 
mate  me  with  a  woman  like  this?" 

Adam  sat  silent.  Hammerdale,  too,  was  silent, 
gazing  with  eyes  deeper  than  before  at  Gudrun,  who 
did  not  seem  to  see  him,  but  stared  into  space, 
breathing  deeply.  Esperanza  raised  her  eyes  to  Ad 
am's  and  there  was  an  intimation  of  a  new  desire  in 
them. 

"Oh,  Adam,  if  we  could — you  and  I " 

Gudrun  threw  a  swift  glance  toward  her.  Es- 
peranza's  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  she  flushed 
deeper  with  embarrassment  as  she  felt  Gudrun's 


84  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

gaze ;  but  she  laid  her  hand  shyly  into  Gudrun's  out 
stretched  left  hand. 

Adam  rose  suddenly,  and  Hammerdale,  too,  rose. 

"Have  a  cigar,  parson?"  said  Hammerdale,  rub 
bing  Aladdin's  lamp. 

Adam  hesitated,  turned,  and  took  one,  biting  off 
the  end. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH  THE  OGRE  OPENS   HIS  SACRED  ARCHIVES 

GUDRUN  and  Esperanza  cleared  the  table,  and 
washed  dishes  until  nine.  As  the  impudent  little 
bird  on  the  cuckoo-clock  slammed  the  door  behind 
him  on  the  ninth  call,  the  last  plate  splashed  into 
the  dishpan  and  clattered,  shiny  white,  on  the  heap 
of  resurrected  crockery  on  the  dripboard. 

"Come  on,  Jimmie,"  Gudrun  called.  "Now's  your 
turn." 

Hammerdale  jumped  to  her  side  and  went  to  work 
with  the  dishcloth.  "Come  on,  parson,"  he  called. 
"Be  a  sport." 

It  was  fortunate  on  the  whole  that  Adam  did  not 
understand  any  more  of  Hammerdale's  words  than 
the  bare  summons.  If  he  had  he  would  have  car 
ried  the  stump  of  his  Manuel  Alonzo  to  dignified 
retreat  in  the  study.  As  it  was,  he  bit  his  lip,  flushed, 
half  rose  and  sank  back  into  his  chair. 

"Nixie,"  whispered  Hammerdale  to  his  lady. 

But  at  that  moment  Gudrun  was  very  sure  that 
drying  dishes  was  a  process  related  to  the  march  of 

85 


86  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

the  constellations.  It  seemed  suddenly  immensely 
important  to  her  that  Adam  should  rise  from  his 
comfortable  chair  behind  the  end  of  what  had  been 
a  noble  cigar,  take  a  dishcloth  in  hand  and  start 
drying  dishes. 

"Herr  Pastor,"  Gudrun  called,  uare  you  going  to 
help  us?" 

Esperanza  was  upon  her  like  a  panther,  shocked 
nearly  to  death.  uOh,  but  Fraulein  Gudrun." 

"The  good  Lord  washed  other  things  than 
dishes,"  answered  Gudrun  simply. 

Esperanza  stood  back,  not  knowing  how  to  reply, 
and  glanced  uneasily  at  Adam.  That  gentleman 
flushed  a  fine  brick  red  and  lifted  his  eyes  to  Gud- 
run's.  He  found  no  relenting  there.  Instead,  she 
came  toward  him  with  a  dishcloth.  "Here,  Herr 
Pastor,"  she  said  in  quite  matter-of-fact  tones. 

Adam  slowly  rose,  took  the  dishcloth  as  if  it 
were  an  unclean  thing  (as  on  the  whole  it  was) 
and  silent  and  embarrassed  began  drying  dishes. 

Angels  might  have  taken  up  a  night's  lodging  in 
the  parsonage  kitchen  when  Gudrun  and  her  army 
were  through  with  it,  shortly  after  the  cuckoo  un- 
melodiously  remarked  that  it  was  ten  o'clock;  so 
neat  and  clean  it  was.  The  pans  were  all  hung  in 
place  under  the  shelves  that  bore  mottoes  in  burnt 
wood — Blank  und  rein  das  muss  sein  and  such  like 
— and  the  dishes  were  carefully  stowed  away  in 
cupboards  in  the  kitchen  and  the  icy  pantry  adjoin- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  87 

ing.  In  setting  away  the  dishes  Gudrun  showed 
herself  machiavellian,  for  after  placing  just  enough 
of  the  common  crockery  for  daily  use  in  the  kitchen 
cupboard,  she  crowded  the  rest  into  the  glass  closet 
in  the  pantry,  locked  the  door  and  dropped  the  key 
behind  the  flour-barrel.  She  smiled  at  her  wily 
tactics. 

They  were  all  very  happy  when  they  finally  gazed 
about  the  shining  kitchen,  for  after  the  first  few 
minutes  of  constraint  Adam  and  Esperanza  had 
gradually  relaxed,  gradually  forgotten  themselves, 
and,  catching  the  contagious  gaiety  with  which  Gud 
run  and  Hammerdale  went  about  the  work,  become 
gay  themselves.  Soon  Esperanza  was  humming  a 
folk-tune  and  Gudrun  took  up  the  words: 

Da  streiten  sich  die  Leut'  herum 
Wohl  um  den  Wert  des  Gliicks. 
Der  eine  heisst  den  andern  dumm — 
Am  End'  weiss  keiner  nix. 

Da  ist  der  allerarmste  Mann 
Dem  andern  viel  zu  reich. 
Das  Schicksal  setzt  den  Hobel  an 
Und  hobelt  beide  gleich. 

Adam  felt  a  warm  feeling  go  through  him  for  he 
used  to  sing  that  song  in  student  days.  Soon  he, 
too,  was  humming,  to  the  amazement  of  Hammer- 
dale,  who,  it  seemed,  did  not  yet  know  his  Adam. 


88  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

And  soon  Hammerdale  himself  caught  the  strain, 
whistling  it  softly  with  variations  as  a  man  may  who 
boasts  a  piano  on  his  ranch. 

At  last  Gudrun  and  her  Young  Man  from  West- 
oversea  stood  at  the  kitchen  door,  saying  good-bye. 
As  Adam  saw  her  standing,  erect  and  strong,  it  oc 
curred  to  him  that  there  was  nothing  grotesque  in 
such  a  one  going  among  Amazons.  One  could  im 
agine  her  in  battle.  He  avoided  a  farewell  in  the 
lamplight,  for  his  emotions  were  still  too  near  the 
surface  to  risk  a  meeting  of  eyes ;  and  bustled  ahead 
to  the  front  door. 

Esperanza,  whose  heart  was  bubbling  over,  bent 
over  quickly  as  she  held  Gudrun's  hand  an  instant, 
and  kissed  it  fervently.  "You  have  been  like  an  an 
gel,"  she  whispered. 

Gudrun  kissed  her  cheek;  and  Esperanza's  uncus 
tomary  joy  came  to  the  boiling  point  once  more.  "I 
don't  know  why  I  should  feel  so  happy,"  she  cried. 
They  parted,  and  Gudrun  joined  Adam  and  Ham 
merdale,  who  were  waiting  for  her  in  the  arctic 
area. 

A  minute  the  three  stood  in  the  clear,  cold  out-of- 
doors  before  they  spoke  the  final  good-night,  for 
the  moon  was  dazzlingly  bright  on  the  snow  and 
the  little  street  of  low  cottages  and  overhanging 
linden-boughs,  snow-laden,  seemed  a  fairy  snow  vil 
lage  out  of  Hans  Andersen.  Adam  and  Hammer- 
dale  shook  hands  warmly,  speaking  each  in  his  own 
language  the  conventional  phrases,  to  hide  from  each 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  89 

other  the  sense  each  seemed  conscious  of,  that  this 
hand  clasp  was  the  seal  upon  a  memorable  event. 
"Parson,  you're  a  good  sort,"  added  Jimmie. 

Gudrun,  too,  took  the  pastor's  hand  once  more, 
and  Adam,  remembering  the  flushed,  eager  face,  and 
his  own  rapturous  imbecility,  wondered  with  a  thrill 
what  words  she  would  choose  wherewith  to  crown 
these  magic  hours.  Her  hand  lay  in  his,  warm  and 
firm.  He  let  it  lie  limp  (till  she  withdrew  it,  won 
dering  at  his  jellyfish  grasp)  lest  if  he  should  press 
it  at  all  he  should  press  it  too  much.  "You  have 
a  good  wife,"  said  Gudrun. 

Adam  did  not  answer.  Gudrun  and  her  Young 
Man  strode  off  through  the  heavy  snow. 

For  five  minutes  the  pastor  stood  bareheaded  in 
the  cold  air.  The  night  was  holy  as  a  church  and 
full  of  half-heard  prayers  and  litanies  and  starry 
hymns ;  and  he  stood  motionless,  almost  unbreathing, 
to  receive  the  benediction  of  the  pure  beauty  round 
about.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  world  was  dis 
tant,  and  spoke  inarticulately  of  things  no  longer 
familiar,  and  that  the  stars  spoke  a  language  he 
could  far  better  understand.  He  breathed  deeply, 
and  with  that  breath  he  seemed  to  return  to  a  com 
prehension  of  earthly  affairs.  He  saw  his  garden- 
fence  and  his  gate,  and  the  row  of  cottages  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  They  were  the  same  as 
they  had  been  that  afternoon  when,  wrathful  and 
despondent,  he  had  stood  in  that  very  spot,  ponder 
ing  grimly  concerning  damnation  and  the  end  of  all 


90  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

things.  What  strong  wind  had  come  and  swept  away 
his  despairs?  He  tried  to  recall  the  events  of  those 
six  hours.  There  was  only  one — the  meeting  by  the 
bench  in  the  woods.  The  rest  was  only  a  succession 
of  moods,  induced  by  a  succession  of  unexpected 
flashes  along  his  cloudy  horizon.  What  strange 
moods,  sunlight  and  shadow!  What  northern 
lights !  What  figures,  stepping  over  the  rim  of  his 
empty  existence,  bearing  a  torch? 

It  was  Gudrun  again,  he  cried  in  his  soul,  Gudrun 
as  always.  But  a  new  Gudrun  than  the  one  he  had 
worshiped  for  ten  years — no  longer  Gudrun,  the 
ivory  statue  in  a  niche,  the  bright  dream-being  who 
made  the  surrounding  world  appear  so  dark,  but 
Gudrun  the  comrade,  groping  toward  the  mountain- 
tops,  the  fellow  combatant  in  whose  eyes  creation 
fought  chaos. 

He  turned  from  the  wonderful  night  and  re- 
entered  the  house.  Who  would  have  thought,  he 
mused  in  the  simplicity  of  his  peasant  soul,  that 
women  had  their  spiritual  struggles  too;  that  they 
were  not  all  either  goddesses  or  wives?  For  here 
was  one  woman,  at  least,  who  was  fighting  to  achieve 
a  deeper  understanding,  as  he  had  read  in  books  that 
men  who  become  saints  or  preachers  or  poets  some 
times  fight.  The  resolution  leapt  in  his  heart:  he, 
too,  must  struggle  henceforth,  if  only  to  keep  living 
the  thrill  he  felt  now  of  their  unity. 

The  question  occurred  to  him  whether  Esperanza 
had  ever  had  her  spiritual  struggle.  He  knew  she 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  91 

had  not.  Her  struggle  had  all  been  physical,  a 
struggle  against  dishes  and  babies  and  meals,  never 
against  spiritual  darkness. 

He  closed  and  bolted  the  door.  Esperanza, 
bright-eyed,  was  waiting  in  the  study  for  his  return. 

"Wasn't  it  wonderful?"  she  cried,  as  though  she 
had  had  a  vision. 

Adam  mumbled  something  unintelligible  and  sat 
down  at  his  desk.  "Good-night,  Adam,"  said  Es 
peranza  timidly.  "I  am  quite  tired.  I  am  going 
to  bed." 

He  allowed  her  to  kiss  him  and  even  spoke  a 
hurried  "sleep  well,"  as  he  bustled  about  among  his 
papers.  When  she  was  almost  out  of  the  room  he 
turned  and  called  her.  She  came  quickly  to  his  side, 
for  his  voice  was  unusually  kind. 

"You  are  a  good  wife,"  he  said,  somewhat  as  a 
man  might  say  the  Apostles'  Creed,  not  because  he 
knew  it  was  so  but  because  Authority  had  pro 
pounded  it.  Ecstatically,  the  thrills  jostled  one  an 
other  up  and  down  Esperanza's  back.  She  threw 
her  arms  about  Adam's  neck.  "Oh,  I  want  to  be — 
I  do!"  she  cried. 

Adam  sighed  a  little,  but  she  did  not  hear  that. 
In  very  girlish,  silly  fashion  she  kissed  him  indis 
criminately  on  cheeks,  eyes,  ears  and  nose,  and  was 
settling  herself  for  the  evening  on  his  knee,  when 
she  felt  his  hand  gently  but  indubitably  pushing  her 
off. 

"I  must  work  now,  child,"  he  said. 


92  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

Whatever  disappointment  she  may  have  felt  did 
not  come  to  flower  in  the  midst  of  her  general  hap 
piness.  She  cried  "Good  night,"  kissed  him  once 
more,  and  was  away  to  bed,  gay  as  a  Backfisch. 

The  pastor  once  more  drew  some  white  paper 
under  his  hand  and  once  more  wrote  Text.  And 
once  more  he  reached  for  his  Bible.  He  turned 
straight  to  his  old  friend  Isaiah.  The  familiar  texts, 
around  which  he  and  others  had  sermonized  so  often 
that  he  need  only  push  a  button  in  his  brain  some 
where  to  turn  out  a  new  discourse  with  a  minimum 
of  labor,  stared  at  him  with  naked  bodies  and  life 
less  eyes  as  he  passed  them  by.  Twelve  hours  ago, 
even  six  hours  ago,  they  would  have  satisfied  him. 
Now  they  seemed  so  utterly  dead  that  he  hurried 
past  them,  ashamed  in  his  soul  of  the  wordy  glamour 
in  which  he  had  once  decked  them  out. 

He  turned  the  leaves  slowly,  but  no  text  seemed 
to  satisfy  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his  career  he 
was  endeavoring,  though  quite  unconsciously,  to  ex 
press  an  experience;  but  the  Bible,  which  to  fresher 
eyes  was  a  living  fountain,  to  him  had  become  a 
dried-up  river-bed  and  would  give  him  no  vital  drink. 
Every  line  he  read  had  its  associations  of  the  class 
room  or  the  pulpit  that  sounded  above  and  below 
and  through  the  ring  of  the  wisdom  itself.  There 
was  nothing  there  that  would  crystallize  the  emotions 
that,  in  no  wise  understood,  were  coursing  through 
him. 

He  closed  the  book  at  last  and  laid  his  folded 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  93 

hands  on  the  cover.  "I  have  found  something,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "What  is  it  I  have  found  ?" 

He  opened  the  Bible  once  more.  The  leaves 
slipped  from  his  fingers,  and  suddenly  and  so  unex 
pectedly  that  it  gave  him  a  little  shock — the  page  of 
family  annals  lay  before  him.  There  were  the 
dates  of  the  birth  of  his  parents,  and  his  father's 
death,  his  own  birth,  confirmation,  matriculation  at 
the  university,  and  admission  to  the  ministry;  then 
the  dates  of  his  various  pastorates,  first  in  Posen, 
then  at  Stromau  in  Silesia,  then  at  Wenkendorf. 
There  was  a  cross  after  the  Silesian  dates,  which 
meant,  possibly,  crucifixion. 

Then  came  dates  and  brief  memoranda  of  a  dif 
ferent  character: 

"June  15,  1902,  G.  v.  H.  brought  me  a  basket  of 
cherries."  That  was  less  tragic  than  the  Silesian 
cross,  but  rather  more  indiscreet  and  revealing.  The 
next  entry  ran,  "December  24,  1902,  G.  v.  H.  gave 
me  a  pair  of  slippers."  Notices  of  other  gifts  fol 
lowed.  Then  came  the  significant  entry:  "October 
14,  1904,  G.  v.  H.  told  me  that  I  am  to  confirm 
her."  Then,  "Palm  Sunday,  1905,  G.  v.  H.'s  con 
firmation."  And  under  it,  "To-day  I  was  one  of  the 
Twelve." 

Adam,  glancing  over  the  entries,  caught  his  breath 
a  little  at  this  and  a  fleeting  look  of  happiness  flut 
tered  at  his  lips,  ran  along  his  cheeks  and  passed 
away  in  a  cloud  of  pain.  "Easter  Sunday,  G.  v. 
H.'s  first  Communion.  Isa.  XII,  i. — Oh,  Lord,  I 


94  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

will  praise  thee :  Thou  wast  angry  with  me.  Thine 
anger  is  turned  away,  and  Thou  comfortedst  me." 

There  followed  hereupon  a  lapse  of  two  years 
without  record.  Then  came:  "December  12,  1906. 
G.  v.  H.'s  first  ball."  Ten  more  dates  followed, 
one  below  the  other. 

"December  24,  1906.  G.  v.  H.  gave  me  a  coffee- 
cup. 

"August  1 8,  1907,  G.  v.  H.  engaged  to  a  man  who 
is  not  worthy  of  her. 

"August  20,  1907.  Adam  Samuels  engaged  to 
Esperanza  Kiste. 

"November  10,  1907.     A.  S.  and  E.  K.  married. 

"February  i,  1908.  G.  v.  H.'s  engagement 
broken." 

The  dates  of  the  birth  of  his  three  children  and 
the  death  of  a  professor  at  the  university  who  had 
expounded  Isaiah  to  him  followed.  Adam  dipped 
his  pen  into  the  black  ink-pot  and  under  the  last 
wrote : 

"Dec.  23,  1912,  G.  v.  H.  engaged  to  Tchimi 
Hammertehl  from  America."  He  took  a  sheet  of 
his  thin,  overworked  blotting-paper  and  carefully 
blotted  the  last  entry.  Then,  just  as  he  was  about 
to  close  the  back  cover  on  the  book,  he  dipped  his 
pen  once  more  into  the  ink  and  under  the  entry 
wrote:  "God  keep  them." 


CHAPTER   VI 

IN  WHICH  A  MELANCHOLY  PERSONAGE  ENTERS  THE 

STORY  AND  LEAVES  IT  AGAIN  (TEMPORARILY) 

BECAUSE   OF   A    HEADACHE 

GUDRUN  and  Hammerdale  took  the  longest  way 
home,  past  the  blacksmith  shop  and  the  farm  build 
ings,  now  dark,  deserted  and  silent,  toward  the 
huge,  snow-burdened  trees  through  which  the  Manor 
lights  were  shining. 

uWho  would  have  thought,1'  said  Gudrun  at  last, 
after  a  long  silence,  uthat  the  parsonage  would  turn 
out  to  be  a  fairy  palace?  I  don't  think  I've  been  so 
happy  in  years."  She  gave  a  short  laugh  that  some 
how  was  not  entirely  gay.  "I'm  almost  ready  for 
the  pleasant  reception  I  suppose  is  waiting  for  us  at 
home." 

"Your  parson  is  a  jewel,"  remarked  Hammerdale. 
"He  should  be  set  in  gold.  But  for  the  way  he 
treats  his  wife  he  ought  to  be  put  in  jail." 

"He  is  a  good  man,"  Gudrun  answered  thought 
fully.  "I  suppose  you'll  laugh  at  me,  but  I  adored 
him  when  I  was  fifteen.  He  gave  me  lessons  twice 
a  week  and  he  always  treated  me  as  though  I  -were 

95 


96  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

somebody  very  important,  which  made  me  feel  warm 
and  happy.  He  was  often  harsh  and  always  dog 
matic,  and  he  taught  me  a  lot  of  things  that  aren't 
true  and  that  Fve  had  to  work  hard  since  to  for 
get,  but  he  gave  me  the  best  he  knew,  and  I  am 
grateful  to  him." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  passing  through  a 
wicket-gate  in  a  tall  arbor-vitae  hedge  and  into  the 
Manor  park.  "It  is  nice,  you  know,"  she  went  on, 
"to  have  someone  imagine  you  a  superior  sort  of 
being,  even  if  you're  not.  I  wonder  if  he  would 
like  me  at  all  if  he  knew  what  trouble  I  sometimes 
have  to  be  just  ordinarily  civil?  And  I  don't  think 
any  of  the  noble  thoughts  that  superior  people  are 
supposed  to  think.  I  have  the  dickens  of  a  time 
just  living." 

"I  think,"  mused  Hammerdale,  "that  the  struggle 
just  to  live,  as  you  understand  living,  is  fuller  of 
nobility  than  all  the  thinking-caps  in  creation." 

Gudrun  pressed  her  shoulder  against  his  arm. 
Then  silently,  hand  in  hand,  they  plowed  their 
way  up  the  broad,  snow-covered  stair  and  entered 
the  house. 

The  Baron  and  his  lady,  who  had  supped  in  mute 
and  solitary  grandeur  at  the  ungodly  hour  of  nine- 
thirty,  were  consequently  still  up  and  very  wide 
awake  when  Gudrun  and  the  suitor  from  America 
appeared.  The  Baron,  in  fact,  was  only  a  quarter 
through  his  post-prandial  Furst  Billow  (which,  au- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  97 

thorities  state,  it  takes  a  full  hour  to  smoke)  and 
lounging,  as  comfortably  as  anybody  could  when  the 
Baroness  was  about,  on  the  living-room  sofa.  The 
Baroness  sat  near,  where  the  light  from  the  tall 
aluminum-bronze  lamp,  with  its  pink  shade  which 
swore  at  the  old-rose  silk  wall-covering  and  hangings, 
threw  a  bright  glow  on  her  softly  melancholy  face. 
The  room,  on  the  whole,  was  comfortably,  if  not 
tastefully,  furnished,  over-tasseled  and  over-knick- 
nacked,  perhaps,  but  livable  in  a  ponderous,  old- 
fashioned  way.  There  were  heavy  chairs  and  heavy 
sofas,  heavy  pillows,  heavy  vases,  and  third-rate 
paintings  on  the  walls  so  heavily  framed  that  visi 
tors  used  to  wonder  nervously  whether  it  were  safe 
to  sit  under  them.  But  withal  there  was  a  spacious 
look  about  the  apartment,  for  to  right  and  left  were 
vistas  through  curtained  doorways  to  other,  smaller 
rooms  and  on  the  side  opposite  the  terrace  windows 
wide  openings  showed  the  dining-room  and  the  ball 
room  beyond. 

The  Baron  straightened  up  at  the  sound  of  the 
opening  door  in  the  vestibule,  and  the  Baroness,  with 
a  mild,  resigned  look,  laid  down  her  book.  Gudrun 
and  Hammerdale  entered  through  the  dining-room. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Gudrun  shortly.  "I'm 
sorry  we're  late." 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness  received  the  greet 
ing  with  lifted  eyebrows ;  but  there  was  a  difference. 
Behind  the  Baron's  questioning  look  there  was  more 
than  a  hint  of  sympathetic  understanding.  His 


98  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

bronzed,  sensitive,  slightly  cadaverous  face  with  its 
whitening  mustache  never  could  look  very  stern 
when  his  daughter  was  about,  though  it  could  be 
wrathy  in  all  conscience  out  among  the  stables  or 
the  beet  fields.  Something  in  the  blue  eyes,  which 
always  gave  the  impression  that  they  would  like  to 
twinkle  much  more  than  they  did,  told  Gudrun  that 
he  was  sorry  for  her  plight  and  would  give  her 
silent  support,  if  no  more,  in  the  difficulties  he  ap 
prehended  for  her.  He  was  a  retired  Major,  and 
had  done  brave  things  at  Sedan  and  before  Orleans, 
but  he  was  no  fighter  in  his  home.  uMy  Gudrun, 
Queen  of  Zeeland,"  he  had  a  habit  of  saying  with 
a  wistful  smile,  "our  whole  trouble  is  that  I  have 
a  damnably  soft  heart  that  no  soldier  who  has  worn 
the  Emperor's  coat  should  have."  Gudrun  always 
liked  the  profanity.  It  sounded  so  grotesque  from 
her  father's  sensitive  lips.  But  she  liked  less  the 
straight,  serious  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  would 
add:  "Look  out,  my  Gudrun,  you  have  a  soft  heart, 
too.  Head  high,  and  on  the  watch!" 

Though  the  Baron  did  not  reply  audibly  to  her 
greeting,  Gudrun,  then,  knew  that  his  feelings  were 
on  her  side.  She  knew  as  certainly  that  her  mother's 
were  not.  If  that  lady's  lifted  eyebrows  and 
slightly  pathetic  smile  veiled  any  sympathy  at  all, 
they  veiled  it  very  successfully.  The  Baroness  sat 
back  in  her  deep  chair,  her  loose,  black  silk  dress 
falling  in  ample  folds  and  giving  an  impression  of 
the  grande  dame  which  was  heightened  by  the  black 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  99 

cap  of  narrow  velvet  ribbons  and  exquisite  lace  that 
sat  on  her  thick  hair  like  a  coronet.  She  had  a 
rather  large,  fleshy  face,  large  cow  eyes,  black- 
circled,  and  a  prominent  nose.  The  slight  hook  in 
it,  of  the  kind  called  aristocratic,  the  straight  up- 
and-down  deep  lines  in  her  cheeks  and  the  ringlets 
on  her  forehead,  formally  arranged  after  the  pat 
tern  of  a  departed  generation,  gave  her  a  haughty 
look,  which,  ever  since  she  had  left  an  unsanitary, 
mediaeval  castle  to  marry  one  grade  beneath  her,  she 
had  done  her  best  to  live  up  to.  This  had  not  been 
difficult  (though  sentiment  had  tripped  her  up  once 
or  twice  in  her  early  youth,  once  fatally,  when  she 
married  the  Baron)  for  the  castle  lay  in  a  forgotten 
corner  of  a  forgotten  principality,  owing  its  con 
tinued  existence  indeed  to  the  fact  that  it  lay  so  far 
outside  civilization  that  no  invading  army,  coming 
from  south,  east,  north  or  west,  had  ever  discovered 
it.  Feudal  habits  of  thought  still  ruled  in  those 
sunless  rooms  and  draughty  corridors,  among  them 
the  conception  that  noblesse  oblige  means  planting 
thorn  hedges  about  your  heart  and  mind.  The  Bar- 
'oness,  always  mournful  and  always  kind  in  a  sac 
charine,  irritating  way,  had  somewhat  the  feeling 
that  she  was  the  last  of  a  dying  order,  and  by  means 
of  her  thorn  hedges  was  keeping  back  the  rude  bar 
barians  of  the  latter  days. 

She  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  stared  at  Gudrun 
and  Hammerdale  till  the  American  thought  that 
breakfast  would  be  announced  before  she  would  see 


ioo  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

fit  to  speak.  A  hymn-book  lay  in  her  lap,  for  she 
was  sincerely  pious  in  an  old-fashioned,  elegiac  sort 
of  way,  and  could  read  dull  old  hymns  by  the  hour 
and  end  evidently  refreshed.  She  drummed  the 
book  with  her  thumb  until  she  had  the  waiting  three 
half  hypnotized.  Then  at  last  she  spoke. 

"Gudrun,"  she  murmured,  "you  have  never  done 
this  to  me  before." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  Gudrun  asked, 
puzzled.  "I  have  certainly  skipped  a  meal  before." 

"My  child,"  said  the  Baroness  sadly,  "to  stay 
out  alone — with  a  man — at  night!" 

Gudrun  looked  at  Hammerdale  with  a  whimsical 
smile  that  seemed  to  say:  "Poor  dear!  If  she 
knew."  Then  she  looked  at  her  father.  The  Baron, 
too,  was  smiling,  a  little  guiltily.  The  rueful  con 
fession  in  his  eyes  was  too  much  for  her  equanimity. 
She  sat  suddenly  down  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  and 
laughed,  body  and  soul. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  of  course,"  she  cried. 
"How  awful  you  must  think  me.  But,  do  you 
know,  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  we  weren't  doing 
the  proper  thing.  You  see,  in  America,  it  was  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world " 

"Then  it  is  not  an  accident,  but  a  habit?  My 
child,  I  am  afraid  you  have  become  very  bold.  And 
your  father  has  been  inexcusably  careless." 

"But,  Clothilde,  I  beg  you,"  interposed  the  Baron, 
"I  trust  this  young  man  as  I  would  trust  my  own 


son." 


FACES    IN    THE''1)AWN:;  ;':^  '/JJM; 

"I  would  trust  no  young  man  with  my  daughter," 
answered  the  Baroness  gently  but  with  finality. 
Then,  as  though  her  words  had  settled  the  discus 
sion,  she  turned  to  Gudrun  again,  and  spoke  in  a 
voice  whose  tender  interest  was  a  little  over-sweet, 
"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  evening,  my  dear?" 

Gudrun,  who  suspected  the  gentleness  of  the  tone, 
answered  in  the  affirmative,  none  too  volubly. 

"And  where  have  you  been?" 

Gudrun  flushed  at  the  question,  for  it  implied  that 
her  mother  did  not  believe  (or  chose  to  pretend  that 
she  did  not  believe)  that  Hammerdale  had  told  the 
truth  about  the  parsonage.  Her  flush  did  not  help 
the  situation,  nor  did  her  low-pitched,  slightly  re 
bellious  voice.  "Mr.  Hammerdale  told  you  that  we 
were  staying  to  supper  at  the  pastor's." 

"And  why  at  the  pastor's  and  not  here?"  pursued 
the  Baroness,  as  sweetly  as  though  she  were  speak 
ing  of  tea  and  biscuits. 

"We  met  him  in  the  woods  and  walked  home  with 
him,  and  he  asked  us  in,"  Gudrun  explained,  biting 
her  lips  in  vexation  at  the  cross-examination.  What 
a  baby  she  must  appear  to  Jimmie !  She  had  a  feel 
ing,  moreover,  that  her  mother  did  not  care  a  straw 
where  she  had  had  supper,  and  was  merely  making 
up  a  scene  to  satisfy  her  love  for  histrionics,  and  to 
prepare  for  an  impressive  exit. 

"Was  there  any  reason  for  you  to  stay  half  the 
night?" 

"You  know  we  didn't  stay  half  the  night." 


\^;::sy;- FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

"I  hope  you  will  not  lose  your  temper  before  your 
mother!"  This  in  tones  of  deep  reproach. 

"Of  course  not,  mother,"  Gudrun  cried.  "But 
what  is  the  use  of  cross-questioning  me  like  a  naughty 
child?  I  told  you  the  truth  at  the  start." 

"Quiet,  child,  quiet,"  the  Baroness  murmured  in 
a  soothing  voice  that  always  irritated  Gudrun  all  the 
more.  "You  must  learn  control.  You  have  been 
allowed  to  run  wild  in  America." 

This  little  thrust  was  not  lost  on  the  Baron,  who 
grinned  surreptitiously. 

"Go  on,"  said  Gudrun  with  a  resigned  sigh. 

"You  must  not  be  sullen,  my  child,  if  I  make  clear 
to  you  that  young  ladies  must  not  be  out  at  night 
with  young  men." 

"Mother,"  Gudrun  said  slowly,  "I  am  engaged  to 
this  particular  young  man." 

"Potzelement!"  cried  the  Baron  delightedly, 
springing  to  his  feet  and  taking  Hammerdale's  hand. 
His  eyes  were  twinkling  like  a  mountain  lake  in  the 
sunlight.  "Never  would  have  suspected  the  possi 
bility." 

Jimmie  laughed.     "You  say  it  well." 

But  there  were  no  twinkles  whatever  about  the 
Baroness.  She  cried,  "Gudrun!"  gasped,  and 
clutched  her  heart.  "You  tell  me  that  so  suddenly — 
without  preparation?" 

"Mother,  how  absurd!  You've  known  ever  since 
Jimmie  came  back  from  America  with  father  and 
me  that  we  should  probably  get  engaged." 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  103 

"My  child,  my  child,  you  are  young,  you  can  take 
things  lightly.  But  I  am  an  old  woman.  What  you 
tell  me  moves  me  deeply.  I  must  let  it  sink  into 
me.  I  must  let  my  heart  grasp  it." 

"Won't  you  say  something  to  Jimmie?"  Gudrun 
begged. 

The  Baronness  nodded  her  head.  "Yes,  yes.  I 
cannot  grasp  it  all  yet.  Let  me  think  it  all  over. 

To-morrow,  perhaps "  She  sighed  deeply. 

"You  are  taking  a  serious  step,  child.  Remember 
your  previous  mistake." 

Gudrun  cringed  a  little,  for  she  remembered  it 
very  well,  and  remembered,  too,  some  of  the  rea 
sons  that  had  led  to  it.  "I  have  not  forgotten  it," 
said  Gudrun,  standing  rigid,  with  eyes  almost 
shut. 

The  eyes  of  the  Baroness  grew  watery  and  a  tear 
or  two  rolled  down  her  heavy  cheeks.  "This  is  a 
grave  hour  in  your  life,  my  child,"  she  said,  taking 
Gudrun's  hand. 

Gudrun  looked  down  at  her,  asking  herself  to 
what  extent  this  was  play-acting,  plain  sentimentality 
or  real  feeling.  A  lip,  quivering  realistically,  re 
vealed  that  the  Baroness  might  actually  be  sincerely, 
though  she  never  could  be  completely,  moved.  Gud 
run  gave  her  mother  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  and 
pressed  the  hand  that  held  hers.  "I  love  Jimmie 
very  much,"  she  said  simply,  "and  I  think  he  loves 
me.  We  can't  tell,  of  course,  what's  ahead  of  us, 
but  I  think  we  are  not  making  a  mistake  in  marry- 


io4  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

ing."  She  held  out  a  hand  to  Hammerdale.  uEh, 
man?"  Hammerdale  gave  a  wordless  answer. 

"But  you  are  not  thinking  of  marrying?"  cried  the 
Baroness,  inexpressibly  shocked. 

"Naturally,"  Gudrun  responded.  "We  can't  help 
that,  can  we?" 

The  soft  brown  eyes  of  the  Baroness  were  full 
of  melancholy  when  she  answered.  "Child,  child, 
do  not  make  too  great  haste.  Enjoy  this  period  of 
your  life,  the  rose-days  of  your  youth,  the  days  of 
courtship  and  blossoming  love.  They  are  the  hap 
piest  you  will  ever  know.  Draw  them  out.  You 
have  the  bliss  of  loving  and  being  loved.  Do  not 
be  over-eager  to  take  on  the  serious  responsibilities 
of  marriage." 

Gudrun  listened  for  a  note  in  her  mother's  voice 
that  might  reveal  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  own 
engagement-time  and  her  own  subsequent  sorrows. 
But  she  remembered  that  her  mother's  courting  days 
had  been  anything  but  rosy,  having  been  watched 
over  by  a  dragon  aunt  and  a  semi-insane  father. 
The  Baroness  was  merely  sentimentalizing,  and  Gud 
run  felt  something  within  her  grow  restless  with 
extreme  irritation.  "You  see,  mother,"  she  an 
swered  as  patiently  as  she  could,  "I  should  never 
risk  marrying  Jimmie  if  I  thought  that  these  court 
ship  days  would  be  the  happiest  we  should  know. 
Besides,  we  can't  wait  very  long,  for  Jimmie  must 
go  back  to  his  work." 


FACES    IN    THE   DAWN  105 

"In  absence/'  murmured  the  Baroness,  "lovers 
can  best  prove  the  power  of  their  love." 

A  long  silence  followed  this  declaration  of  ma 
ternal  policy.  Hammerdale,  who  caught  the  drift 
of  things  from  the  changing  expressions  on  the  three 
faces,  crossed  the  room  and  studied  a  fine  old  red 
Bartolozzi  in  a  hideous  black  and  gold  frame.  The 
Baron  frowned  and  took  a  step  toward  the  com 
batants. 

"Clothilde,"  he  said,  addressing  his  wife.  "This 
is  a  matter  in  which  I,  too,  may  have  a  word  to 
say." 

"Of  course,  Georg,"  she  responded,  raising  her 
eyes.  "You  know  you  always  have  everything  to 
say." 

"You  are  joking,  Clothilde,"  the  Baron  answered. 

The  Baroness  shook  her  head  sadly.  "I  am  not  in 
the  mood  for  joking." 

"You  understand,  then,"  went  on  the  Baron,  "that 
I  see  no  reason  whatever  why  the  children  should 
not  be  married  before  this  young  man  must  go  back 
to  his  work." 

The  Baroness  rose  to  her  feet.  "I  understand, 
Georg."  She  laid  a  soft  hand  on  Gudrun's  black 
hair.  "You  are  young,  my  child.  You  have  no 
experience  of  life.  Trust  me."  Then,  without 
further  words,  she  moved  majestically  through  the 
dining-room  and  into  the  hall  whence  the  stairway 
led  to  her  rooms. 

"But,  father,"  Gudrun  cried,  "it's  absurd." 


io6  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

The  Baron  nodded  his  head  grimly.  "Quite,"  he 
said. 

Gudrun  ran  after  her  mother,  catching  up  with 
her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "You  mustn't  go  to 
bed  yet.  You  can't  decide  this  matter  offhand  like 
this  without  even  telling  us  your  reasons." 

"My  child,"  murmured  the  Baroness  with  her 
wan,  patient  smile,  "there  are  other  days,  many, 
many  other  days." 

"But  why  should  we  put  things  off?" 

"Let  me  go,  child.     I  have  a  headache." 

Gudrun  stood  back.  Slowly  her  mother  ascended 
the  stairs  and  disappeared.  The  Baron  looked  as 
if  the  French  had  captured  Berlin  and  were  camping 
in  the  Tiergarten. 

"Father,  why  didn't  you  say  something?"  Gud 
run  cried  as  she  returned  to  where  her  father  and 
Hammerdale  were  rather  disconsolately  picking  out 
fresh  cigars.  "You  know  perfectly  well  that  mother 
will  be  sick  in  bed  now  until  we  promise  not  to  say 
another  word  of  marriage." 

"Very  likely,"  said  the  Baron,  meditatively  blow 
ing  out  a  match. 

Hammerdale  had  his  own  cigar  well  alight  be 
fore  he  spoke,  filling  at  last  the  silence  which  Gud 
run  and  her  father  were  evidently  keeping  open  for 
him.  "I  am  sorry  if  our  plans  are  going  to  make 
any  friction  in  the  house,"  he  said.  "Naturally,  I 
wish  Gudrun  to  do  as  her  mother  wishes  as  far  as 
possible.  But,  of  course,  knowing  Gudrun's  feelings 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  107 

in  regard  to  me  and  her  rather  unhappy  life  here, 
you  understand  that  I  shall  have  to  insist  that  we 
be  married  before,  say,  before  the  middle  of 
March/'  He  paused,  then  went  on  more  slowly. 
"I  am  sorry  to  have  to  insist.  But  you  see  the  situ 


ation." 


"But  my  wife/'  said  the  Baron  plaintively. 

"Have  you  a  calendar?"  asked  Hammerdale. 

The  Baron  handed  him  a  slip  calendar  with  verses 
from  the  poets,  birth  and  death-days,  tides,  moons 
and  bills  of  fare  beside  the  date  itself  on  each  thin 
sheet.  Hammerdale  turned  the  leaves  thoughtfully. 
"If  we  put  it  off  to  the  limit,  March  I3th,  it  would 
give  us  just  time  to  make  the  boat  at  Liverpool " 

"No,  no,  no,"  interjected  the  Baron.  "Never  the 
thirteenth!" 

"All  the  better,"  said  Hammerdale,  smiling.  "It'll 
have  to  be  the  twelfth.  Would  the  twelfth  suit  you, 
Gudrun?"  His  voice  was  firm  and  quick  and  al 
most  business-like. 

"I  can  be  ready  by  the  twelfth,"  said  Gudrun. 

"And  shall  we  have  Parson  Samuels  do  the 
job?" 

Gudrun  laid  her  arm  over  his  shoulder.  "Of 
course,  Pastor  Samuels." 

"You  are  very  confident,  young  man,"  said  the 
Baron,  laying  his  hand  too  over  Hammerdale's 
shoulder.  "I  truly  hope  you  may  be  married  when 
you  say.  My  only  joy  in  life  will  go  with  you.  Well, 
I  must  face  that  as  I  have  faced  other  things.  I 


io8  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

am  sixty.  I  have  lived  out  of  the  stream.  I  am 
no  longer  important  to  anybody  except,  possibly, 
this  girl  of  ours.  I  do  not  seem  at  all  important 
to  myself.  But  you  two  are  under  thirty.  The 
world  depends  on  you.  Your  happiness  is  supremely 
important.  I  trust  you  may  find  it.  God  keep  you !" 

He  kissed  Gudrun,  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then 
kissed  Hammerdale  on  both  cheeks.  Hammerdale 
had  always  laughed  at  the  idea  of  men  kissing.  But 
now  he  did  not  want  to  laugh  at  all.  His  throat 
acted  queerly  and  he  felt  as  he  supposed  men  must 
feel  when  they  stood  before  the  minister  hearing 
the  tremendous  words.  He  drew  Gudrun  close. 
When  they  awoke  to  the  world  again  the  Baron  was 
gone. 

Gudrun  gently  extricated  herself  from  his  arms. 
"We  are  always  walking  on  the  brink  of  tragedy  in 
this  house,"  she  said  softly.  "Father  is  such  a  no 
ble  man,  and  mother  is  good,  but  it's  always  been 
the  way  that,  when  we  should  have  been  happiest, 
we  seem  to  have  come  closest  to  misery.  We,  none 
of  us,  know  how  to  live."  She  paused,  went  to  one 
of  the  terrace  windows  and  looked  out  into  the 
moonlight.  "I  knew  once  upon  a  time,  when  I  was 
fifteen,  but  I've  forgotten  since.  It  was  so  easy 
then.  I  said  to  myself:  I  want  to  be  good,  and  I  was 
good,  for  being  good  meant  doing  my  school  les 
sons  for  a  horrid  governess  we  had,  and  my  work 
in  the  house,  and  being  kind  generally,  and  that  was 
all.  And  when  I  was  bad,  pretty  soon  I  was  sorry, 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  109 

and  then  everything  ran  along  simply  again.  Then, 
suddenly,  I  woke  up  to  conditions  in  the  house  or 
possibly  they  became  worse  than  they  had  been.  I 
tried  in  a  childish  fashion  to  make  things  better, 
and  made  them  still  worse.  Soon  after  that  mother 
decided  that  it  was  time  I  should  think  of  getting 
married — I  was  sixteen,  Jimmie.  She  was  living  in 
another  century,  you  see.  She  bought  me  fine  clothes 
and  invited  young  men,  and  I  was  fascinated  by  it 
all.  And  mother  let  me  read  sentimental  books — 
even  Zschokke !  I  don't  suppose  you  know  Zschokke, 
but  he  wrote  terribly  romantic  stuff  that  wasn't  al 
ways  very  decent.  And  when  we  walked  in  the 
woods  together  she  used  to  talk  of  the  bliss  of  youth 
ful  love.  I  have  thought  since  that  it  was  a  form  of 
self-indulgence.  It  did  me  a  lot  of  harm.  I  en 
joyed  it  all,  I'm  afraid.  Of  course,  I  started  to 
build  my  own  romances  and  gradually  these  crowded 
out  all  my  old  ardor  to  live  right  above  all  things. 
I  just  forgot.  And  when  my  father,  who  saw  what 
was  happening,  reproached  me  in  his  dear,  gentle 
way,  I  was  sullen  and  told  mother,  and  there  was 
a  terrible  scene.  It's  from  that  time  that  mother 
and  father  ceased  to  talk,  except  when  it  was  abso 
lutely  unavoidable.  Mother  felt  offended  and  father 
was  just  miserable.  And,  until  I  broke  my  engage 
ment  to  Max,  even  father  was  distant  and  cold  to 
me,  not  because  he  loved  me  any  less,  but  because  he 
was  trying  to  crush  all  feeling  in  his  heart."  She 
paused,  then  went  on  in  lower  tones,  "Father  is  a 


i  io  FACES   IN   THE   DAWN 

man  of  deep  feeling.  He  loved  mother  very  much 
when  he  married  her  and  though  she  made  him  give 
up  his  career  and  sapped  the  life  of  all  his  talents 
one  by  one — and  he  must  have  been  a  wonderfully 
gifted  man  when  he  was  young — he  still  loves  her. 
That  is  where  our  whole  trouble  lies.  Father  and 
I  have  never  been  able  to  strike  back." 

Hammerdale,  sitting  in  the  sofa,  regarded  her 
with  knitted  brows  and  puzzled  eyes.  When  Gudrun 
finally  ceased  and  was  standing  with  her  back  to  him, 
still  facing  the  windowpane  to  which  she  had  ad 
dressed  the  greater  part  of  her  speech,  the  puzzle 
ment  in  his  face  grew  as  he  tried  to  frame  an  answer. 
Gudrun  was  evidently  expecting  one,  for  she  turned 
after  a  minute,  saying,  "Do  you  understand?" 

Hammerdale  spoke  slowly,  carefully  choosing  his 
words.  "I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  get  your  mother 
yet.  She  happens  to  be  a  type  we  don't  seem  to 
have  many  of  in  the  West."  He  held  out  his  hand. 
"Here,  lady,  sit  down.  If  you  wander  about  much 
more  I'll  start  to  wander  myself  and  I  shouldn't 
like  to  do  that.  Now  enlighten  me.  What's  your 
mother's  reason  for  not  wanting  us  to  marry?" 

Gudrun  gave  a  short  laugh  that  struck  Hammer- 
dale  as  almost  cynical.  "Mother  has  no  reasons. 
She  has  emotions.  It  isn't  that  she  doesn't  approve 
of  you.  She  does.  You  know  she's  even  been  rather 
silly  over  you.  I'm  sure  she  thinks  it's  very  ro 
mantic  that  I  should  be  engaged  to  you.  But  she 
doesn't  want  to  let  herself  believe  that  I'm  really 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  in 

going  to  get  married;  for  getting  married  means  a 
lot  of  fuss  and  planning,  and  it  means  my  going 
away  and  the  necessity  of  a  housekeeper  to  take 
my  place — and  mother  likes  to  shove  all  that  into  the 
dim  future.  It  nearly  wrecked  the  household  when 
father  and  I  went  to  America." 

"A  sort  of  chronic  nervous  prostration?"  Ham- 
merdale  asked,  groping  for  light. 

Gudrun  smiled  a  little  wearily.  "Mother  has  iron 
nerves.  The  trouble  is  she  can't  face  facts." 

"I  suppose,  then,  we  are  in  for  some  arguments?" 

"Jimmie,  you're  still  in  the  dark.  Mother  never 
argues.  She  just  obstructs."  The  smile  faded;  and 
she  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  played  with  a 
bead-ring  (a  childhood  relic)  which  she  wore  on 
her  little  finger.  "I'm  tired,  I'm  terribly  tired  of  it, 
Jimmie,"  she  said  in  suspiciously  placid  tones.  "Ever 
since  I  can  remember  it's  been  the  same.  Without  a 
word,  without  a  look  even,  just  by  the  way  she's 
gone  from  one  room  to  another,  she's  forced  us 
to  live  the  way  she  wanted  and  do  the  things  she 
wanted,  always  avoiding  crises,  never  daring  to 
speak  the  truth  or  to  face  it,  never  daring  to  touch 
life  anywhere,  sentimentalizing  everything.  Why, 
all  our  life  here  has  been  just  a  wandering  about 
among  shadows,  no  goal,  no  principle,  just  an  aim 
less  passing  from  one  year  to  the  next,  because  we 
loved  her  and  weren't  able  to  strike  back." 

Hammerdale  stroked  her  hair  with  amazing  gen- 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

tleness,  considering  the  generous  size  of  his  hand. 
"I'm  afraid  this  is  where  you'll  have  to  at  last." 

Gudrun  studied  the  little  bead-ring  and  it  recalled 
to  her  mind  a  month  on  the  shores  of  the  Baltic 
twelve  or  more  years  ago  when  her  mother  had  given 
her  that  ring.  But  this  memory  was  suddenly  ef 
faced  by  another — the  picture  of  her  father  wistfully 
looking  into  her  eyes  and  saying:  "Look  out,  my 
Gudrun,  Queen  of  Zeeland.  You  have  a  soft  heart, 
too.  Head  high  and  on  the  watch!" 

She  repeated  the  words  to  Hammerdale. 

"Head  high,"  he  said,  bending  over  her  chair. 
"And  your  father  and  I'll  be  on  the  watch.  And, 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  funny 
parson  might  make  a  third." 

Gudrun  did  not  look  up  into  the  face  that  she 
knew  was  bending  so  very  close  to  hers.  She  sat, 
chin  in  hand,  staring  into  the  farther  shadows  of 
the  room.  "Four  of  us — against  my  mother,"  she 
mused  half  aloud.  "I'm  afraid  I  may  not  be  an  ab 
solute  success  as  a  rebel." 


CHAPTER   VII 

IN  WHICH  THE  OGRE  FINDS  THAT  SOMETHING  HAS 
HAPPENED  TO  HIS  SPECTACLES 

PASTOR  ADAM  climbed  out  of  bed  next  morning 
into  his  frosty  room  with  a  sense  that  life  was  be 
ginning  anew.  He  did  not  express  this  thought  con 
sciously  and  probably  was  not,  strictly  speaking, 
aware  of  it.  Esperanza,  moreover,  serving  him  his 
breakfast  with  all  the  old  docility  on  the  outside, 
but  a  new,  unnamed  impulse  within,  did  not  see  that 
he  was  different  in  any  way  from  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  served  some  eighteen  hundred  or  two  thou 
sand  breakfasts  in  the  course  of  their  married  life. 
She,  who  felt  as  though  Gudrun  had  lit  up  a  hun 
dred  crystal  chandeliers  in  her  being,  marveled  in 
a  mild  sort  of  way  that  her  husband  could  drink  his 
coffee  and  eat  his  bread  with  the  same  absorption 
that  had  characterized  his  manner  formerly.  It  oc 
curred  to  her  suddenly  that  Adam  was  stolid.  She 
was  a  little  horrified  at  herself  for  thinking  such 
a  thing,  but,  on  reviewing  later  Adam's  bearlike 
attack  on  the  breakfast,  she  decided  the  criticism  was 
just.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  Hammerdale,  at  supper, 


ii4  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

though  evidently  hungry,  had  not  swept  the  food 
into  his  mouth  as  though  it  were  the  last  in  the 
world,  and  a  train  to  catch,  affected  her  judgment. 
At  any  rate,  the  recording  angels  clapped  their  hands 
and  sang,  as  they  made  the  entry  in  red  ink,  for  it 
was  the  first  criticism  of  her  lord  and  master  that 
Esperanza  had  ever  ventured.  It  meant  that  a 
mind  as  well  as  a  soul  was  awaking. 

The  criticism,  of  course,  was  not  just.  Adam  was 
not  as  stolid  as  his  habitual  habit  of  leaning  over 
his  plate  (with  the  napkin  tied  firmly  behind)  and 
shoveling  in  his  food,  seemed  to  Esperanza's  sud 
denly  sensitive  perception  to  indicate.  Spiritually 
he  was  leagues  from  the  Adam  of  yesterday's  break 
fast;  for  he  was  hurrying  this  morning  not  because 
he  was  merely  gluttonous,  but  because  he  was  eager 
to  be  through,  and  about  his  work.  Ideally,  of 
course,  Adam,  after  the  spiritual  house-cleaning  of 
the  previous  evening,  should  not  have  had  any  mere 
vulgar  appetite  at  all.  But  appetites  are  tough  and 
have  a  way  of  surviving  in  Paradise  or  Cocytus. 

Adam's  sense  of  a  new  beginning  was  expressed 
most  clearly  by  the  haste  with  which  he,  who  was 
generally  leisurely  to  sluggishness,  rose  from  the 
table  and  threw  on  his  cape  and  hat.  Gudrun  had 
thrilled  him  with  her  self-revelation,  raising,  by  a 
word,  the  struggle  of  life  to  a  dignity  and  beauty 
he  had  never  associated  with  it.  Life  had  always 
seemed  to  him  a  rather  sordid  plugging  along  from 
day  to  day;  and  he  had,  in  fact,  found  about  as 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  115 

much  pleasure  in  it  as  a  dray-horse  might,  seeking 
his  recreation  outside  life,  in  dreams  and  more  or 
less  sentimental  picturings  of  very  improbable  fu 
tures.  But,  since  last  night,  Gudrun's  words  had  been 
ringing  through  his  thoughts  and  drifting,  curiously 
iterant,  through  the  semi-unconsciousness  of  his 
sleep:  "There  is  only  one  struggle,  the  struggle  for 
spiritual  growth."  He  had  always  thought  there 
were  a  thousand  struggles,  and  they  were  all  little 
struggles,  unromantic,  unrelated  and  scarce  worth 
winning.  uOne  struggle!"  That  was  a  different 
matter.  If  Gudrun's  dictum  were  true,  then  he  was 
gaining  a  step  in  the  great  struggle  every  time  he 
kept  his  temper  when  Esperanza  tempted  him  like 
the  devil  to  lose  it;  and  Esperanza  was  gaining  a 
step  every  dish  she  washed.  His  mind  sprang  from 
point  to  point  with  unwonted  quickness;  but  on  the 
last  point  he  poised  to  catch  his  breath.  "Does  Es 
peranza  want  spiritual  growth?" 

"Teach  her  to  want  it,"  came  the  answer  from 
somewhere  within  him  in  a  new  voice  he  did  not 
recognize. 

"She  is  hopeless,"  his  mind  answered. 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  the  voice. 

"I  have  lived  with  her  for  five  years." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

Adam  did  not  know  where  the  voice  got  that 
foolish  question  and  decided  that  it  was  meaning 
less.  "Anyway,"  he  thought,  "Esperanza  is  just  a 


woman." 


ii6  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 


"Isn't  Gudrun  a  woman?" 
'That's  foolish." 


'Why  foolish?" 

"Can  you  mention  Gudrun  and  Esperanza  in  one 
breath  ?" 

"Esperanza  has  possibilities" 

"She  can't  even  manage  a  house.  She  can  only 
bear  children." 

"But  you  must  confess  she  is  a  good  mother" 

The  old  Adam  reluctantly  agreed. 

"Are  all  women  good  mothers?" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"Are  you  sufficiently  grateful  then?" 

"Perhaps  not." 

"Esperanza  is  'very  loving." 

"Of  course." 

"She  never  complains" 

"Why  should  she?" 

"Are  you  always  loving  with  her?" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"Esperanza  is  unselfish" 

"She  merely  does  her  duty." 

"Do  you  always  find  that  an  easy  thing  to  do?" 

"No.  But  I  am  a  man.  There  are  certain  obvi 
ous  things  that  it  is  easy  for  her  to  do  because 
she  is  a  woman.  It  is  easier  for  a  mother  to  be 
kind  to  her  children  than  not.  The  things  she  finds 
difficult  she  neglects.  Housekeeping,  for  instance." 

"Do  you  take  sufficient  interest  in  the  house 
keeping?" 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  117 

"Why  should  I  take  interest?  I  have  other, 
greater  things  to  think  of.  Housekeeping  is  her 
special  work." 

"There  are  not  two  struggles,  one  outside  the 
house  and  one  inside.  There  is  only  one  struggle, 
the  struggle  for  spiritual  growth;  and  no  one  can 
fight  it  for  the  others,  but  no  one  can  fight  it  alone." 

"Ah!"  said  the  pastor  aloud,  and  looked  up,  for 
a  sleigh  had  stopped  beside  him;  and  as  he  looked 
up  he  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  Gudrun  von 
Hallern. 

The  conversation  recorded  above,  between  Pas 
tor  Adam  and  a  certain  inner  self  that  was  gradu 
ally  emerging  from  the  dust  the  years  had,  day  by 
day,  spread  over  it,  occurred  on  the  highway  that 
ran  between  the  plastered,  thatch-roofed  cottages 
and  the  high  park  wall  of  Wenkendorf  Manor.  It 
began  at  the  parsonage  door,  where  the  pastor  ne 
glected  in  his  absorption  to  note  the  beauty  of  the 
sunlit  snow-world  that  made  his  eyes  blink  with  its 
brilliancy;  and  accompanied  his  heavy,  plodding 
steps  as  he  proceeded  toward  a  neighboring  manor 
where  a  flinty  old  laborer  with  a  pair  of  bad  lungs 
had  shown  intimations  of  an  eleventh  hour  peni 
tence.  It  was  at  the  gate  of  the  two  spread  eagles 
that  Gudrun's  sleigh,  instead  of  running  over  him 
as  it  might  quite  easily  have  done,  stopped  him  in 
his  walk,  and  stopped  the  conversation  at  a  point 
at  which  Adam  was  content  for  the  present  to  let 
it  remain. 


ii8  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

"Good  morning!"  cried  Gudrun,  who  looked  very 
fresh  and  rosy  in  her  furs;  and  "Greetings,  parson!" 
cried  Jimmie  Hammerdale. 

Adam,  who  was  disconcerted  and  embarrassed  by 
the  unexpected  meeting,  murmured,  "Good  night," 
corrected  himself,  and,  very  much  flushed,  shifted 
from  one  foot  to  the  other  like  a  school-boy  who 
is  reciting  a  piece  and  can't  for  the  life  of  him 
think  of  the  next  line.  Gudrun  mercifully  sup 
plied  it.  "Isn't  it  a  wonderful  Christmas  Eve  morn 
ing?" 

The  parson  looked  about  him  as  if  to  see  whether 
it  really  were,  and  assented  reluctantly.  Certain 
words  the  buried  self  had  said  were  still  echoing  in 
his  ears,  making  actual,  spoken  words  sound  very 
faint  and  far  away. 

"We  are  just  starting  off  for  a  jingle  over  to 
Hiinenfeld,"  said  Gudrun,  "and  were  going  to  stop 
to  ask  your  wife  to  prepare  for  a  visit  from  the 
Christmas  Man  this  afternoon.  I  so  want  to  have 
a  little  Christmas  frolic  and  we  haven't  had  one 
at  the  Manor  for  years,  you  know."  Her  voice  was 
a  little  wistful.  "You  do  have  a  tree,  don't  you?" 

"We  generally  have  a  little  one,"  Adam  answered, 
"but  this  year " 

Gudrun  drew  the  reins  tighter,  for  the  gray  stal 
lions  had  had  no  exercise  for  a  day  or  two  and  were 
impatient  to  be  off. 

"You  tell  the  Frau  Pastorin  that  we'll  be  there 
about  three.  And  she  needn't  bake,  for  our  cake- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  119 

boxes  at  the  house  are  just  running  over  and  we'll 
come  with  all  our  pockets  bursting  with  cookies." 
She  hesitated,  then  added,  "Hasn't  your  wife  some 
quite  special  Christmas  wish?  I  should  so  like  to 
bring  her  something." 

Adam's  eyes,  more  than  his  voice,  spoke  his  grati 
tude.  "You  gave  us  our  Christmas  last  night,"  he 
said. 

Gudrun's  face  grew  suddenly  grave  and  she  drew 
a  little  tighter  on  the  reins.  "You  do  not  know 
what  those  hours  meant  to  Jimmie  and  me,"  she 
said  so  softly  that  the  words  were  almost  lost  in 
the  jingle  of  bells  as  the  horses  danced,  rebellious  of 
control.  "We  had  a  rather  hard  time  when  we  got 
home.  My  mother  does  not  quite  approve  of  our 
getting  married." 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,"  Adam  cried  with  all  the  sin 
cerity  of  his  love. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  doing  wrong,  Herr  Pastor? 
I  am  going  to  Hiinenfeld  to  have  the  engagement 
announcements  printed." 

Echoes  of  the  Third  Commandment  as  he 
preached  it,  with  the  word  "obey"  grimly  intrenched 
in  the  seat  of  the  word  "honor,"  woke  in  the  pas 
tor's  head.  "I  am  sorry  you  are  in  trouble,"  he 
said,  hedging. 

"Am  I  doing  wrong?"  she  persisted. 

"It  is  not  easy  for  you  to  do  wrong." 

She  laughed  a  little  at  that,  but  her  voice  was 
low  and  serious  when  she  spoke.  "No,  it  certainly 


120  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

is  not  easy  in  this  case.  It  is  a  pilgrimage  on  bare 
feet." 

Adam  remembered,  with  suddenly  glowing  heart, 
times,  ages  ago,  when  the  little  St.  Teresa  had 
brought  her  troubles  (lesser  troubles  for  the  frailer 
shoulders)  to  the  catechism  lessons  in  the  school 
room.  "Perhaps  you  had  better  wait,"  he  suggested 
.tentatively. 

A  sterner  light  woke  in  Gudrun's  eyes.  "No,  I 
am  afraid  to  wait." 

"Afraid?" 

"I  know  myself,  you  see,"  she  explained.  "I  am 
not  used  to  disobeying  my  mother.  If  I  waited,  I 
might  give  in." 

Adam,  the  pastor,  realizing  that  his  efforts  were 
futile,  since  Gudrun  had  evidently  wanted  encourage 
ment  rather  than  advice,  retired,  beaten;  and  Adam 
the  man  came  to  the  fore.  He  wanted  to  tell  her 
not  to  give  in  though  the  heavens  fall,  but  the  pas 
tor  in  him  balked  at  that.  What  he  actually  did 
say  was,  "You  have  an  upright  judge  in  your 
heart." 

Gudrun  quickly  shifted  the  reins  to  her  left  hand 
and  reached  out  to  him  her  gloved  right.  "And  you 
are  a  true  friend,"  she  said. 

Adam  felt  the  blood  gallop  in  his  veins  as  her 
hand  pressed  his  firmly.  A  minute  later  he  was 
watching  the  sleigh  flying  down  the  highway. 

More  thoughtfully  even  than  before,  he  went  on. 
But  his  step  was  springy  and  young,  for  the  picture 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  121 

of  Gudrun,  beautiful  as  the  dawn,  with  the  cold 
air  reddening  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  alternately 
bright  and  cloudy,  went  before  him,  as  her  face 
used  to  go  before  him  in  the  days  when  Gudrun, 
neither  saint  nor  woman  but  only  a  dream,  filled  his 
lonely  hours.  Another  face  was  beside  it,  the  com 
posed,  quiet  face,  with  the  touch  of  sternness  be 
neath  the  humor  of  the  lips  and  the  gray,  deep-set 
eyes  of  Jimmie  Hammerdale.  That  face  did  not 
disturb  his  vision  of  the  other.  It  seemed  already 
to  belong  with  it. 

Adam  did  his  duty  by  the  scared-o'-judgment  la 
borer  with  decidedly  more  enjoyment  and  rather 
more  skill  than  he  had  brought  to  similar  occasions 
in  the  past.  He  was  not  heart  and  soul  in  the 
work,  but  that  for  once  helped  rather  than  hindered 
the  effect,  for  he  brought  from  the  higher  reaches, 
where  his  spirit  w.as  pursuing  Gudrun's,  a  sober  ex 
altation  that  made  him,  in  his  distraction,  talk  more 
sense  than  he  was  wont  to  talk  when  his  mind  was 
securely  rooted  to  earth.  He  left  the  cottage  with 
a  buoyancy  of  tread  which  the  laborer's  ancient 
mother  (a  good  ninety  she  was  and  still  about) 
thought,  as  she  watched  him  from  her  spy-platform 
by  the  window,  inconsiderately  vigorous  for  a  min 
ister  who  had  just  promised  her  son  forgiveness  of 
his  sins.  Adam,  indeed,  felt  cheered  by  the  inter 
view  with  the  old  wretch.  He  had  surprised  him 
self  with  the  wise  things  he  had  said.  So  he  marched 


122  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

home  happily  thinking  that  one  disagreeable  duty,  at 
least,  had  been  made  a  triumph  because  he  had  felt 
that,  small  as  it  was,  it  was  a  part  of  the  one  tre 
mendous  struggle. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

IN    WHICH     MANY    CANDLES    ARE    LIGHTED    ON    A 
CHRISTMAS  TREE,  AND  ELSEWHERE 

GUDRUN  and  Hammerdale  came  promptly  at 
three,  but  harbingers  had  gone  before  them.  One 
such  ministering  spirit  had  brought  a  Christmas 
tree;  no  little  stump  of  a  thing  to  set  on  a  table, 
but  an  eight-foot,  majestic  balsam  fir  whose  top 
scraped  against  the  study  ceiling.  The  two  elder 
children  were  bustled  upstairs  when  it  appeared  in 
the  offing,  whence  they  made  adventurous  sallies 
of  espionage,  sliding  half  way  down  the  banisters 
trying  vainly  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Christmas 
Man.  They  were  disappointed  to  discover  only  the 
manor-gardener's  third  assistant,  a  youth  of  fifteen 
with  sugar-bowl  ears,  and  decided  that  the  Christ 
mas  Man,  being  a  high  official,  had  a  subordinate,  of 
course,  to  do  the  heavy  work  for  him. 

Quoth  Adam,  junior,  aged  four:  "Karl  does  the 
carrying  because  the  Christmas  Man  is  so  busy  doing 
the  brain-work." 

Assented  Klarchen  with  admiration:  uOf  course, 
Adam.  How  wise  you  are !" 

123 


124  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

Quoth  Adam:  "Of  course.  And  when  I  am  big 
you  can  do  the  carrying  and  I  shall  do  the  brain- 
work." 

Klarchen  was  silent,  thinking  it  over. 

The  second  harbinger  was  the  cook  from  the 
Manor-house,  who,  since  she  ruled,  not  too  leniently, 
a  sub-cook  and  a  scullery-maid,  bore  the  courtesy- 
title  of  Mamselle.  She  was  a  large,  genial-faced 
woman  with  a  loud  voice  that  rang  cheerily  through 
the  house,  making  Adam,  junior,  frown  amazingly 
like  his  father,  as  he  cogitated  concerning  her  of 
ficial  position  on  the  Christmas  Man's  staff. 

"Funny  people  the  Christmas  Man  sends,"  he 
remarked. 

"P'raps  she  is  the  Christmas  Man's  wife,"  ven 
tured  Klarchen,  trying  to  make  herself  believe  she 
did  not  recognize  the  voice. 

"It's  Mamselle,  stupid  child,"  cried  Brother  scorn 
fully. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  asked  Klarchen,  dis 
appointed. 

"Of  course!" 

Whatever  Mamselle's  status  in  the  mystic  bureau 
cracy,  she  evidently  knew  her  business  as  Christ 
mas  emissary,  for  the  children  heard  their  mother 
exclaim  with  delight  again  and  again,  and  leaned 
perilously  far  over  the  banister  to  see  what  they 
could.  But  they  could  see  nothing  at  all  and,  after 
ten  minutes  of  uninterrupted  jabber,  Harbinger 
Number  Two  departed.  The  children  rushed  to  the 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  125 

upper  windows  to  see  whether  the  Christmas  Man's 
sleigh  was  waiting  for  her  outside,  for  they  heard 
jingling  bells.  They  actually  did  see  a  sleigh  and 
it  was  piled  high  with  mysterious  bundles  in  brown 
paper,  but  they  noted  sadly  that  it  was  not  the 
Christmas  Man  who  was  driving  it,  only  another 
subordinate.  But  this  subordinate  was  beautiful 
(which  was  one  satisfaction),  and  they  forgot  the 
Christmas  Man  for  a  minute  as  they  watched  the 
beautiful  lady  give  the  reins  to  Heinrich  the  Manor- 
huntsman  and  jump  to  the  ground.  Another  minion 
of  the  Christmas  Man  was  at  her  side  unloading  the 
sleigh.  A  sudden  tingling  warmth  ran  through  their 
little  bodies  as  the  hope  became  certainty  that  the 
many  packages  were  actually  not  going  to  be  carried 
away  again;  for  the  lady  and  the  man  entered  the 
parsonage  with  arms  laden,  Mamselle  climbed,  still 
jabbering,  into  the  sleigh,  bells  jingled  and  the 
sleigh  was  off. 

"Oh  1"  cried  Adam,  junior,  suddenly  flushed  and 
breathless. 

"Oh,  Adam,"  cried  Klarchen,  and  kissed  him. 

There  was  a  pause,  whereupon  Adam,  junior,  re 
marked  sternly:  "Now,  aren't  you  glad  I  always 
made  you  be  good?" 

Below,  things  were  moving.  The  pastor  was  not 
at  home,  having  been  called  to  a  neighbor  who  had 
broken  her  leg  on  an  icy  threshold  and  required  his 
services  to  justify  the  ways  of  God.  Esperanza, 


126  FACES   IN  THE   DAWN 

therefore,  had  the  cares  of  hospitality  on  her  own 
shoulders,  and  was  correspondingly  flustered.  Gud- 
run  and  Hammerdale,  however,  convinced  her  speed 
ily  that  they  had  not  come  to  be  entertained,  but 
to  work,  which  flustered  the  little  parsonage  lady 
still  more,  until  she  forgot  herself  in  the  contagious 
excitement  of  her  visitors.  For  the  Christmas  thrill 
was  running  up  and  down  Gudrun's  back  as  it  had 
not  done  for  the  Lord  knew  how  many  years.  There 
had  been  Christmases  at  the  Manor-house  in  old 
times,  celebrated  with  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
the  occasion  demanded,  but  with  the  silence  a  cold 
blanket  had  fallen  on  all  festivals.  The  Baroness, 
absorbed  in  her  piety  and  her  Wehmut  (which  one 
must  translate  by  the  word  melancholy,  thereby 
missing  the  countless  sentimental  overtones  which 
certainly  the  Baroness  made  the  most  of) ,  had  grad 
ually  pruned  the  celebration  down  to  a  single  stately 
roast-goose  dinner  on  Christmas  Day,  which  to  Gud- 
run  was  a  mockery.  She  had  tried  once  or  twice  to 
revive  the  old  delights,  but  the  spirit  was  gone  out 
of  them.  Here,  in  the  parsonage,  she  was  deter 
mined,  those  delights  should  live  for  her  once  more 
before  she  put  them  behind  her  for  always  with  the 
rest  of  her  old  life,  or  recreated  them  in  other  forms 
in  her  New  World.  Hammerdale,  who  associated 
Christmas  mainly  with  indigo-blue  mining  camps,  re 
sponded  to  her  enthusiasm  with  a  boyish  abandon 
that  made  her  marvel  happily  at  the  hidden  treasures 
this  excellent  lover  of  hers  was  uncovering  from  day 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  127 

to  day.  He  marveled  on  his  part  at  her  ability  to 
give  herself  so  completely  to  a  sentiment  without  a 
vestige  of  the  sentimentality  his  training  had  taught 
him  to  abhor.  So  both  of  them  forgot  completely, 
for  the  time  being,  the  distressful  interview  with  a 
wistfully  smiling  but  iron-clad  mother,  and  the  rather 
somber  drive  to  Hunenfeld  in  the  morning;  and  pre 
pared  a  Christmas  room  in  the  parsonage  that  the 
carefree  Christmas  Man  himself  could  not  have  im 
proved  upon. 

They  began  on  the  tree,  decking  it  out  with  chains 
and  balls,  trumpets  and  ships  and  bells  and  horses, 
stars  of  silver  and  showers  of  gold.  The  Christ- 
child  stood  on  the  topmost  spire  and  about  him  and 
below  stood  a  ring  of  angels  exquisitely  fashioned. 

"Jupiter!"  cried  Hammerdale,  "we  certainly 
roamed  the  attic  to  good  effect." 

"Oh,  there's  five  times  as  much  as  this  some 
where,"  Gudrun  answered,  her  voice  warming  as  she 
remembered  those  Christmases  of  long  ago.  "Why, 
we  used  to  have  a  tree  fifteen  feet  high.  I  remember 
I  used  to  nip  off  good  things  from  it  by  leaning 
over  the  rail  of  the  balcony  above  the  dining-room. 
I  stole  one  of  the  Christ-child's  little  angels  once. 
You  count.  There  are  eleven  up  there.  IVe  the 
twelfth  over  in  the  school-room  yet.  Every  Christ 
mas  since  we  stopped  having  celebrations  at  the 
house  I've  pulled  him  out  of  the  drawer  and  had  a 
little  celebration  of  my  own.  One  year  I  even  had 
a  tree.  It  was  one  foot  high  and  carried  exactly 


128  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

three  candles.     But  I  loved  it.     It  brought  back  a 
bit  of  the  breathless  wonder  of  those  early  Christ- 


mases." 


They  were  drawing  strains  of  gold  and  silver 
through  the  dark  balsam  boughs  as  she  spoke,  and 
Hammerdale,  intent  on  his  endeavor  to  carry  the 
glistening  threads  through  to  the  base  of  the  tree 
without  disturbing  any  of  the  other  ornaments,  did 
not  look  up  as  he  answered:  "We  don't  seem  to 
cultivate  breathless  wonder  at  anything  in  my  part 
of  the  world.  We  make  a  great  fuss  over  celebra 
tions,  but  the  innards  of  most  holidays  we  somehow 


seem  to  miss." 


"Yes,  and  it's  the  innards  that's  everything,"  Gud- 
run  cried,  "as  far  as  Christmas  is  concerned.  The 
glory  of  it  all  is  the  sense  of  the  hallowed  season, 
that  comes  first,  dimly,  in  October  when  the  leaves 
go,  and  you  begin  to  think  of  the  presents  you're 
going  to  make,  and  that  grows  more  poignant  as 
the  snow  comes  and  the  people  you  meet  begin  to 
talk  Christmas  to  you,  and  nothing  but  Christmas, 
as  though  life  were  to  stop  then,  and  there  were 
to  be  no  days  beyond.  That's  the  Christmas  spirit. 
It  sanctifies  the  meanest  little  cookie,  somehow,  and 
brings  it  into  the  aura  of  heaven." 

Jimmie  laughed.  "I  guess  you've  got  it,  bless 
you!" 

Gudrun  laughed  too,  a  little  sheepishly.  "I  must 
sound  like  an  awful  baby." 

Hammerdale  looked  at  her  with  his  quiet,  steady 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  129 

glance.  "I  think  not,  lady.  I  think  not,"  he  said, 
and  carefully  hung  a  gilded  walnut  on  the  tree. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  It  was  Es- 
peranza,  who  had  been  banished  to  the  kitchen, 
asking  whether  she  could  help.  Gudrun  opened  the 
door  a  crack  and  laughingly  barred  the  entrance. 
"You  can't  come  in,  Frau  Pastorin,  the  Christmas 
Man  is  in  here.  You  dress  and  get  the  children 
ready.  We'll  attend  to  this  room." 

Esperanza  looked  up  at  her  with  her  clear,  blue 
eyes.  "I  will  do  anything  you  say,"  she  answered. 

Finally  the  tree  was  finished,  even  to  the  candles, 
each  of  which  was  lighted  and  then  quenched  to 
make  the  later  lighting  quicker;  and  now  Gudrun 
and  Hammerdale  fell  to  the  packages.  There  was 
a  motley  assortment,  ranging  from  a  silk  waist  or 
two  for  Esperanza  and  a  coffee-cup  for  Adam  (Gud 
run  had  discovered  certain  shards),  to  railroad 
trains,  dolls  and  lead  soldiers  for  the  elder  chil 
dren  and  a  rubber  elephant  for  the  youngest.  There 
were  other  things  too  numerous  to  mention,  unro- 
mantic  things  like  underwear  and  stockings,  combs, 
washrags  and  soap,  scented  to  make  its  use  tempting, 
table-linen,  towels,  dishcloths  and  dishdrainers.  The 
linen  and  towels  bore  the  Hallern  crest  and  some 
of  the  toys  dated  from  Gudrun's  childhood;  but 
Gudrun  knew  they  would  be  no  less  welcome  for 
that  reason.  Hammerdale,  with  a  solemn  face  and 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  contributed  a  box  of  one  hun 
dred  Manuel  Alonzos. 


130  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

"I  know  I'm  blowing  myself,"  he  said  in  answer 
to  Gudrun's  mild  scolding.  "But  if  ever  a  man  went 
down  on  his  knees  before  a  graven  image,  the  dear 
old  parson  went  down  before  those  cigars  last  night. 
Let  me  give  him  a  spree." 

The  tree  was  standing  against  the  north  wall, 
and  to  right  and  left  of  it  now  they  set  tables,  gath 
ered  together  from  every  room  in  the  house;  and 
overlaid  them  with  shining  white  napkins.  There 
was  a  table  for  Adam  and  another  for  Esperanza 
and  one  for  each  of  the  children,  even  unto  the 
baby;  and  two  tables  more. 

"This  one  is  for  you,"  said  Gudrun. 

"And  this  one,  lady,"  answered  Jimmie,  setting 
his  table  close  beside  the  other,  "is  for  you.  So  we 
are  quits." 

They  arranged  the  gifts  to  best  advantage  and 
on  every  table  set  a  soup-plate  overflowing  with 
cookies,  nuts,  raisins  and  bonbons.  "I  remember 
how  I  used  to  love  having  my  goodies  all  to  myself," 
Gudrun  said.  "That,  too,  was  a  part  of  Christ 


mas." 


The  front  door  opened  and  shut  and  a  heavy 
tread  sounded  on  the  flags  of  the  corridor.  "There's 
the  parson  now,"  said  Hammerdale.  "Won't  he 
want  to  come  in  here?" 

Adam  did  want  to  come  in,  but  Gudrun  flew  to 
the  key  and  turned  it  just  in  time.  "What  is  this 
nonsense,  Esperanza?"  he  cried,  shaking  the  door 
handle. 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  131 

Gudrun  did  not  answer  and  with  a  glance  com 
manded  silence  from  Hammerdale. 

"Have  you  gone  crazy,  Esperanza?"  cried  the 
pastor. 

From  above  came  a  thin,  small  voice.  "Did  you 
call  me,  Adam?" 

"Who  has  locked  my  study  door?"  he  called,  flar 
ing  up. 

Gudrun  turned  the  key  quickly  and  allowed  her 
face  to  appear  in  the  narrow  opening  of  the  door. 
"The  Christmas  Man,  Herr  Pastor!  Have  you 
forgotten  it's  Christmas?" 

Adam's  anger  cooled  with  wonderful  rapidity. 
"Forgive,"  he  said  humbly.  "I  did  not  know  it  was 
you." 

He  saw  a  light  flash  in  her  eyes  as  they  looked 
straight  into  his.  "Did  you  think  it  was  only  your 
wife?"  she  asked  quickly. 

His  eyes  fell.  "Forgive,"  he  said  again,  more 
softly  than  before. 

The  tables  were  all  spread  now,  all  but  the  two 
that  were  their  own.  "Now  you  can  go  out,  Jim- 
mie,  and  let  the  parson  entertain  you.  Then,  when 
I'm  through  with  your  table,  I'll  cover  it  with  a 
sheet  or  something  and  you  can  come  back  and  fix 
mine.  But  woe  to  you  if  you  peep !  The  Christmas 
Man  will  take  everything  away  again.  That's  law 
and  gospel."  She  kissed  him  lightly.  "Out  you 
go!" 


I32  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

Out  he  went.  And  in  the  dark  of  the  icy  corri 
dor  he  saw  a  black,  bulky  figure  striding  up  and 
down  on  the  flags  outside  the  study  door.  "Greet 
ings,  parson,"  he  said. 

Adam's  liking  spoke  undisguised  in  his  answering 
greycing. 

*sHave  a  cigar,"  said  Jimmie  innocently. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  parson.  They  adjourned  to  the 
frigid  dining-room. 

They  sat  next  each  other  in  silence  for  a  long 
time,  huddled  in  their  overcoats  as  close  to  the 
Chinese  tomb  as  possible.  Gudrun,  it  appeared  later, 
arranged  Jimmie's  table  in  about  three  minutes,  but 
Esperanza,  who  was  preparing  to  warm  up  the  Lu 
cullan  feast  which  Gudrun  had  had  prepared  at  the 
Manor,  needed  her  assistance  in  the  kitchen,  and  she 
forgot  entirely  that  her  Young  Man  was  undoubt 
edly  slowly  coagulating  in  one  of  the  unlighted,  un- 
heated  rooms  of  the  lower  floor. 

Hammerdale,  it  seems,  got  even  with  his  lady, 
for  he,  too,  forgot  that  he  was  to  be  recalled,  and 
sat  silently  content,  letting  the  minutes  slip  by  as 
he  breathed  out  and  breathed  in  friendship.  Soon 
he  even  forgot  the  cold,  drawing  slowly  at  his  cigar 
and  wondering  at  the  inner  warmth  that  was  sud 
denly  his.  With  amazement  he  discovered  that  he 
was  very  fond  of  the  queer  parson;  and,  half  laugh 
ing  at  himself,  he  set  himself  to  finding  out  why. 
The  parson  was  sincere,  he  said  to  himself,  and  he 
could  keep  such  excellent  silences.  He  did  not  think 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  133 

it  necessary  to  remind  himself  concerning  the  funda 
mental  reason  for  the  sympathy  he  felt  for  Pastor 
Adam. 

Perhaps  Adam  felt,  somehow,  the  growth  of 
Hammerdale's  friendly  feeling  for  him.  At  any 
rate,  his  heart,  too,  was  warming  to  the  clear-voiced 
American,  who  spoke  and  laughed  little,  but  so 
heartily  when  he  did,  and  who  was  never  melancholy 
at  all.  They  had  never  exchanged  a  single  idea, 
but  here  they  were,  smoking  in  admirable  unison,  no 
strangers  at  all,  but  friends  deeply  learned  in  each 
other's  hidden  ways.  Asked  to  analyze  each  other 
they  would  have  quite  sincerely  professed  complete 
ignorance;  but  the  very  comfortableness  of  the  si 
lence  that  wrapped  them  round  indicated  that  they 
knew  many  things  that  they  did  not  even  attempt  to 
crystallize  into  definite  thoughts.  This,  indeed,  was 
not  surprising,  for  the  locks  of  both  hearts  responded 
to  the  same  key. 

It  was  quite  natural,  then,  for  Hammerdale  sud 
denly  to  continue  aloud  the  conversation  it  seemed 
to  him  he  had  been  carrying  on  subconsciously  with 
Adam  for  the  past  half  hour.  "I  met  her  first,"  he 
said  slowly,  entirely  disregarding  Adam's  inability 
to  understand  the  words  he  was  saying,  "I  met  her 
first  at  Bartlett's  Ranch  in  the  White  River  country, 
where  her  father  went  for  the  hunting  and  trout 
fishing.  My  ranch  is  twenty-five  or  thirty  miles 
straight  north  over  the  mountains  up  Pagoda  way 
and  I  met  her  one  evening  when  I  was  stopping  for 


134  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

the  night  at  Bartlett's  on  my  way  to  the  fish  hatch 
ery  at  Marvine  Lodge.  I  stayed  at  Bartlett's  ten 
days — my  Christopher,  clear,  cold  September  days 
they  were ! — and  then  they  came  back  with  me  over 
the  mountains  by  Lost  Park  and  down  Williams 
Fork — not  even  a  trail  there  in  spots  and  bad  cross 
ings  over  the  streams  that  were  pretty  high  after 
the  first  fall  rains,  but  she  took  them  like  an  old 
hand — and,  finally,  at  three  in  the  afternoon  we 
came  to  my  place.  I  haven't  got  very  many  conve 
niences  there  except  a  talking  machine  and  a  piano 
that's  out  of  tune — but  they  stayed  six  weeks.  I 
set  the  old  man  on  the  trail  of  a  brown  bear  or 
two  and  a  silver-tip,  until  he  turned  his  ankle,  and 
then  I  used  to  ride  him  over  to  a  ledge  near  the 
house  after  supper,  where  he  popped  at  coyotes  till 
it  was  too  dark  to  see  your  hand  across  the  street. 
And,  meantime,  she  and  I  were  getting  acquainted. 
The  Baron's  a  good  sort,  but  I  guess  he  was  a  rot 
ten  chaperon.  We  rode  all  up  and  down  the  valley, 
even  as  far  as  Harrowood's,  twenty  miles  down 
toward  Meeker,  where  one  of  God's  women,  old 
Harrowood's  widow,  runs  the  ranch  and  a  peck  of 
children  and  knows  more  of  State  politics  than  half 
the  members  of  the  Legislature.  In  a  month  there 
wasn't  a  white  woman  or  a  half-breed  within  twenty- 
five  miles  that  Gudrun  hadn't  talked  to.  I  guess  they 
thought  she  was  an  angel  from  heaven  the  way  they 
looked  at  her,  and  Gudrun,  she  thought  she  was  a 
poor,  helpless  thing  and  used  to  sit  for  hours  getting 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  135 

the  women  to  talk  of  themselves  and  their  lives. 
I  always  took  the  women  sort  of  for  granted,  except 
Mrs.  Harrowood,  who  has  big-sistered  me  for  ten 
years  or  more;  but  they  did  seem  pretty  fine  as 
Gudrun  talked  of  them.  Of  course,  I  loved  her 
from  the  start  and  I  suppose  she  knew  it  at  the 
end  of  a  week.  I  know  I  told  her  before  we  left 
Harriett's.  But  she  wouldn't  believe  me.  She  said 
I  just  thought  I  loved  her  because  she  was  different 
from  the  women  I  was  used  to,  and  that  all  that  she 
was  experiencing  out  West  had  upset  her  and  she'd 
have  to  get  her  bearings  before  she  could  be  sure 
of  herself  or  me  or  anything.  But  I  wasn't  going 
to  run  any  chances,  so  I  got  old  Pat  Finerty,  who 
owns  the  next  ranch  to  mine,  to  keep  his  eye  on  my 
plant,  and  when  the  Baron  got  homesick  and  decided 
to  make  for  the  steamer  I  beat  it  after  them.  And 
now  I've  got  her  for  keeps.  And  half  the  plumb 
ing  shops  and  decorating  establishments  in  Colorado 
are  going  to  get  on  wheels  when  we  get  back." 

There  followed  a  long  silence.  Adam  had  let 
his  cigar  go  out,  and  had  not  thought  of  relighting 
it.  And,  at  last,  forgetting  quite  that  his  words  were 
unintelligible  to  Hammerdale,  he  spoke:  "She 
brought  me  a  basket  of  cherries  one  morning  in 
June.  Her  black  hair  was  loose  over  her  shoulders 
and  her  dress  was  torn;  and  she  told  me  about  a 
Finnish  laborer  who  had  stolen  a  ham  from  the  dairy 
cellar  and  was  to  be  arrested  and  carried  to  Hiinen- 
feld.  She  wanted  me  to  intercede  for  him.  Of 


136  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

course,  it  did  no  good.  Her  father  was  angry  and 
would  not  be  budged.  But  she  came  often  after  that. 
I  had  been  very  unhappy,  and  she  raised  me  up." 

There  was  another  long  silence.  "It's  wonder 
ful,"  Hammerdale  mused  half  aloud,  "how  a  woman 
can  open  up  life.  Mrs.  Harrowood  cured  me  of 
the  Demon  just  by  being  ordinarily  decent  to  me 
when  I  was  lonely,  and  I  guess  I've  been  pretty  lonely 
most  of  my  life.  And  just  the  way  Gudrun  looks 
at  a  Christmas  tree  ornament  somehow  is  worth 
more  as  real  education  than  four  years  at  college 
and  a  post-graduate  course  thrown  in." 

"I  was  very  unhappy,"  Adam  repeated  in  a  low 
voice,  "and  she  raised  me  up." 

A  shaft  of  light  shone  suddenly  through  the  key 
hole,  and  a  second  later  a  blast  of  cold  air  like  a 
knife  at  their  necks  made  the  two  men  shiver  as 
the  door  from  the  hall  was  opened  and  Gudrun,  a 
lamp  in  her  hand,  entered. 

"So,  here  you  are,  young  man,"  she  cried.  "And 
you've  forgotten  entirely  that  you  were  going  to 
set  a  plate  of  goodies  on  a  table  all  for  myself. 
Shoo  out  now,  and  do  your  duty.  7  am  going  to 
set  the  table  for  the  feast.  And  you,  Herr  Pastor," 
she.  went  on,  "you  can  revive  the  fire  in  the  tile- 
stove.  It's  cold  as  Colorado  in  November."  Which 
possibly  showed  that  Gudrun  and  Esperanza,  too, 
had  been  reminiscing. 

Hammerdale   returned  to  the   Christmas  room, 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  137 

feeling  a  sudden  pleasure  as  he  saw  the  tree  and 
the  tables  looking  so  very  bright  and  festive  even  in 
semi-darkness;  and  saw  the  table  that  was  his  mys 
teriously  piled  high  beneath  the  napkin  that  hid  the 
things  Jimmie  was  not  to  see  until  the  proper  time. 
Gudrun's  table,  still  bare,  stood  next  to  his. 

He  drew  a  jewelry  case  out  of  his  pocket  and  laid 
it  on  the  center  of  the  table.  "There,"  he  thought, 
"Gudrun's  table  is  finished;  that  didn't  take  long." 
But  as  he  looked  at  the  table  it  seemed  hopelessly 
bare  and  hard-looking  beside  the  others.  Of  course, 
he  thought,  for  he  had  forgotten  the  cookies.  He 
took  the  last  brimming  plate  from  the  pastor's  desk, 
planting  it  behind  the  jewelry  box.  The  effect  did 
not  strike  him  as  thrilling.  Perhaps  it  was  the  gaiety 
of  the  socks  and  waists  and  neckties  and  ribbons  on 
the  other  tables  that  made  his  display  appear  so 
hopelessly  cold  and  lifeless.  He  opened  the  box 
and  snapped  it  shut  again  quickly,  for  the  brilliancy 
of  the  diamond  pendant  he  had  bought  for  his  lady 
in  Hamburg  seemed  suddenly  as  vulgar  as  some 
of  the  throats  he  had  seen  that  wore  such  things 
and  thought  them  on  the  whole  the  glory  of  life. 
He  grew  depressed,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  discovered  in  himself  a  streak  of  vulgarity. 
Why  had  he  missed  the  spirit  of  Gudrun's  Christmas 
so  utterly  as  to  intrude  anything  of  real  money  value 
into  this  lovely  mystery  play  of  hers?  It  seemed 
like  offering  to  tip  the  angels. 

He  thrust  the  box  back  into  his  pocket  and  gazed 


1 38  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

at  the  table,  which  looked  more  in  keeping  with  the 
others  now,  though  it  held  nothing  but  a  soup-plate 
overflowing  with  nuts  and  raisins  and  a  marvelous 
variety  of  cookies.  Suddenly,  he  had  an  inspiration. 
He  turned  to  the  pastor's  desk  and  from  the  dis 
order  picked  out  a  clean  sheet  of  paper.  Seating 
himself  in  the  pastor's  chair,  with  a  few  strokes  of 
a  pen,  he  drew  a  picture,  and  under  it  wrote  a  dozen 
words.  Then  he  folded  the  paper  and  half  hid  it 
under  the  plate,  giving  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  as 
though  he  felt  he  had  redeemed  himself;  where 
upon  he  rejoined  the  pastor  in  the  dining-room. 

"Is  everybody  ready?"  asked  Gudrun.  "Are  the 
children  dressed?" 

Esperanza  poked  a  fork  into  the  odorous  goose 
that  was  slowly  warming  in  the  oven,  closed  the 
oven  door,  and  took  off  her  apron.  She  was  flushed, 
partly  from  the  heat  of  the  range,  partly  from  ex 
citement.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  answered.  "They  have 
been  dressed  for  hours.  They  were  so  impatient 
and  they  promised  to  keep  neat." 

"You  must  bring  the  baby  too.  He  will  be  glad 
for  the  lights  on  the  tree,"  said  Gudrun.  "Have 
you  a  bell?" 

Esperanza  found  a  silver  bell.  "Here,  Jimmie," 
cried  Gudrun.  "You  take  this  and  when  you  have 
lighted  the  candles  tinkle  it  and  we'll  come." 

Hammerdale   retired  into   the   Christmas   room 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  139 

once  more.  "Herr  Pastor,"  Gudrun  called.  "Are 
you  ready  ?" 

Adam  appeared,  looking  as  neat  as  he  could  in  his 
best  Sunday  coat;  and  a  little  flushed  too. 

"Isn't  it  exciting?"  Gudrun  cried. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  with  a  half  melancholy  smile. 
"I  feel  almost  like  a  child  myself.  Come,  chil 
dren,"  he  called,  "come  quick!  The  Christmas  Man 
is  waiting." 

Adam,  junior,  hand  in  hand  with  Klarchen,  came 
scampering  down  stairs.  "Klarchen,  Klarchen,  the 
Christmas  Man!"  cried  the  boy. 

They  sat  down  on  the  stairs,  which  were  sep 
arated  from  the  icy  main  hall  by  a  partition  and 
caught  some  of  the  kitchen  warmth.  "Now  we  must 
sing  to  the  Christmas  Man,"  said  Gudrun. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  must  sing,"  cried  Klarchen,  thrilled 
beyond  measure. 

In  a  clear  voice  Gudrun  began.  The  children 
chimed  in  at  once  and  on  the  second  line  Esperanza, 
singing  very  softly,  took  up  the  familiar  words. 

O  Tannenbaum,  O  Tannenbaum, 
Wie  griin  sind  deine  Blatter! 
Du  griinst  nicht  nur  zur  Sommerszeit. 
Nein,  auch  im  Winter  wenn  es  schneit. 
O  Tannenbaum,  O  Tannenbaum, 
Wie  griin  sind  deine  Blatter! 

Gudrun  felt  a  lump  in  her  throat.  "You  must 
sing,  too,  Herr  Pastor,"  she  said. 


1 40  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

"Good.     I  will  sing,  too,"  he  answered. 

Stille  Nacht,  heilige  Nacht! 
Alles  schweigt,  einsam  wacht 
Nur  das  heilig,  hochheilige  Paar, 
Holder  Knabe  in  lockigem  Haar, 
Schlaf'  in  himmlischer  Ruh! 
Schlaf'  in  himmlischer  Ruh. 

"Do  you  hear  the  Christmas  Man  tinkling  his  bell 
yet?"  whispered  Esperanza  to  her  children. 

"No,"  said  little  Adam  in  a  hushed  voice.  "Did 
you,  Klarchen?" 

"No,"  the  little  girl  answered.  "Did  you, 
Adam?" 

The  pastor  began  the  next  song  in  his  deep,  rich 
voice : 

O,  du  frohliche,  O  du  selige, 

Gnadenbringende  Weihnachtszeit ! 

Welt  ging  verloren, 

Christ  ward  geboren. 

Freue  dich,  freue  dich,  Christenheit ! 

A  faint  streak  of  light  showed  under  the  door 
of  the  Christmas  room. 

"Look!"  cried  little  Adam,  as  the  Wise  Men 
may  have  cried  when  they  saw  the  star. 

Gudrun  found  Esperanza's  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"How  cold  your  hand  is,  Fraulein  Gudrun,"  cried 
the  parsonage  lady. 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  141 

"Is  it?"  said  Gudrun.  "I  must  be  excited."  And 
to  control  the  whirligig  of  her  mind  she  started  a 
livelier  song. 

Morgen,  Kinder,  wird's  was  geben! 
Morgen  werden  wir  uns  freun. 
Welch  ein  Jubel,  welch  ein  Leben, 
Wird  in  unserm  Hause  sein! 
Einmal  werden  wir  noch  wach, 
Heisa!     Dann  ist  Weihnachtstag ! 

The  silver  bell  tinkled,  pure  and  clear  through 
the  sudden  silence  that  followed  the  song.  The 
children  leapt  to  their  feet.  "The  bell!"  they  cried. 

Still  it  tinkled.  Gudrun  thought  that  St.  Peter 
would  tinkle  a  silver  bell  like  that  some  night  when 
he  was  ready  to  open  heaven's  door  for  her. 

They  were  all  on  their  feet  now.  Esperanza,  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  pushed  little  Adam  and  Klarchen 
to  the  fore.  "You  lead  the  way,"  she  said. 

The  children  clasped  hands,  and  at  that  moment 
Hammerdale  opened  the  door. 

To  the  little  group  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the 
room  that  moment  seemed  a  glory  stolen  out  of 
fairyland.  Hammerdale  had  quenched  the  lamp  on 
the  pastor's  desk,  and  the  hundred  winking,  blink 
ing  candles  on  the  tree  gave  an  unearthly  magic  to 
the  dingy,  familiar  place.  So  straight  and  white 
they  stood,  like  a  flaming  hierarchy  doing  homage 
to  the  gleaming  Christ-child  at  the  peak.  The  tree 
had  grown  in  woods  nearby,  the  candles  had  been 


142  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

bought  over  a  city  shop-counter,  and  the  sparkling 
ornaments  fashioned  by  human  hands,  but  together 
they  made  a  thing  that  seemed  strangely  to  rise 
above  its  mortal  creators  into  the  upper  airs  of 
heaven. 

The  watchers  on  the  threshold  stood  an  instant 
in  entranced  silence.  Then  little  Adam  gave  a  gasp 
of  delight  and  Klarchen  gave  a  gasp,  and  "Oh,  how 
beautiful!"  Esperanza  cried,  and  "Oh!"  cried  Pas 
tor  Adam.  Gudrun  pressed  her  lips  together,  but 
her  eyes  shone,  and  Hammerdale,  half-hidden  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  suddenly  remembered  what 
Christmas  was  all  about. 

Then  with  a  shout  the  children  invaded  the  room. 
"Here  is  your  table,  Klarchen,"  said  Gudrun,  "and 
here,  little  Adam,  is  yours."  With  inarticulate 
paeans  the  children  fell  upon  their  toys. 

"Oh!  a  new  coffee-cup!"  cried  Adam,  senior,  with 
a  gratitude  in  his  voice  that  might  have  seemed 
comical  to  Hammerdale  twenty-four  hours  ago,  but 
struck  him  quite  otherwise  now.  "And,  oh,  Herr 
Hammerdale,  the  cigars !" 

The  American  shook  the  hand  he  reached  out. 
"Glad  you  like  the  brand,  old  man,"  he  said. 

Esperanza's  feelings  had  got  the  better  of  her 
and  she  was  sniffling  softly  when  Gudrun  came  at 
her  grateful  call  to  find  her  trying  a  new  silk-lined 
cap  on  the  baby.  "And  to  think,"  she  whispered, 
"that  we  thought  the  Manor-house  had  forgotten 
us." 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  143 

"Forgive  us,  Esperanza,"  Gudrun  answered  in 
low  tones,  "Jimmie  and  I  at  least  will  never  forget 
you  again." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  murmured  the  little  parsonage 
lady,  "I  know."  She  took  up  the  gifts  one  by  one, 
practical  gifts  all  of  them,  for  herself  or  the  baby, 
exclaiming  at  each  petticoat  and  pair  of  stockings 
as  though  they  were  part  of  a  queen's  raiment.  "I 
shall  go  calling  again  now  I  have  such  wonderful 
things  to  wear,"  she  exclaimed,  looking  suddenly 
surprisingly  girlish.  "And,  oh,  the  hat!" 

"It  is  from  New  York,"  said  Gudrun.  "I  thought 
it  would  be  becoming  to  you." 

"New  York!"  Esperanza  repeated  in  awed  tones. 
"And  do  you  really  think  it  will  be  becoming?" 

Hammerdale,  too,  was  appreciatively  examining 
his  harvest.  There  were  neckties  and  socks  of  vari 
ous  hues,  the  inevitable  ash-tray,  a  knitted  silk  scarf 
that  somehow  looked  familiar,  and  a  pair  of  simple 
mother-of-pearl  cuff-links. 

"Not  a  very  gorgeous  display,  is  it?"  remarked 
Gudrun,  "and  I'm  afraid  the  ties  are  hideous,  but 
they  were  all  that  Hiinenf eld  could  offer  and  I  didn't 
want  your  place  to  look  too  bare.  And  the  scarf? 
I  did  that  on  the  steamer  coming  back.  You  teased 
me  about  my  industry,  do  you  remember?  When 
I  made  that  I  was  wondering  all  the  time  whether 
or  not  I'd  really  marry  you,  and  I  think  it  helped 
me  to  decide.  It  did  feel  so  good  making  something 


144  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

that  would  keep  you  warm."  His  hand  on  her  shoul 
der  answered  her. 

And  then  Gudrun's  eyes  suddenly  caught  sight 
of  the  folded  piece  of  paper  under  her  plate  of 
cookies.  With  an  exclamation  of  delight  at  the 
mysterious  find  she  drew  it  out  and  unfolded  it. 
On  it  Hammerdale  had  drawn,  not  unskilfully,  a 
Christmas  tree  bright  with  candles,  and  written  one 
line:  "Dear  Christmas  lady,  I  think  you  have  some 
thing  to  teach  Colorado." 

She  took  both  his  hands  in  such  a  way  that  the 
others  could  not  see  and  gave  them  a  close,  grateful 
pressure.  "How  did  you  know,"  she  whispered, 
"that  that  would  be  the  most  precious  gift  you  could 
possibly  give  me?  You  do  see  into  people,  don't 
you?" 

Hammerdale  smiled  a  little  ruefully.  "Sometimes 
I  nearly  am  a  most  perfectly  awful  bull,"  he  re 
marked.  "I  had  a  close  shave  to-night."  But  he 
did  not  dare  to  explain  that  statement  until  they 
were  on  their  way  home. 

The  children  were  having  a  blissful  time.  Little 
Adam  had  established  a  complete  railway  system 
(modeled  on  the  portable  narrow-gauge  line  that 
ran  through  the  Manor  fields  in  autumn  for  the 
transportation  of  sugar-beets)  and  did  not  seem  to 
fear  the  constant  peril  he  was  in  of  being  annihi 
lated  beneath  the  tread  of  his  elders.  Klarchen  was 
rocking  her  new  doll  to  sleep  to  the  tune  of  "O  Tan- 
nenbaum";  and  even  the  baby  was  crawling  about 


FACES   IN   THE    DAWN  145 

the  floor  teaching  his  rubber  elephant  to  jump  rail 
road  cars,  feet  and  other  obstructions. 

A  benign  look  was  on  Pastor  Adam's  face  as  he 
watched  them,  and  a  softer  light  in  his  eyes  than 
Hammerdale  had  yet  seen  there.  He  turned  as  he 
felt  a  hand  plucking  at  his  sleeve  and  followed  Es- 
peranza  to  her  table. 

"Look,  Adam,"  she  said.     "All  these  things  for 


me." 


There  was  a  ring  in  her  voice  that  he  had  not 
heard  for  many  a  day.  "Well,  are  you  happy, 
child?"  he  asked,  putting  his  arm  through  hers. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  happy!"  she  answered. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said.  "You  will  look  pretty  in 
these  things." 

"Oh,  no;  do  you  think  so  really?"  she  cried. 

The  children  grew  sleepy  and  a  little  fretful  at 
last,  and  at  six  were  gently  parted  from  their  new 
treasures  and  led  off  to  supper  and  bed.  There 
were  no  howls  to-night,  no  scoldings.  A  delicious 
peace  seemed  to  lie  upon  the  house  and  all  its  in 
mates  that  seemed  to  Adam  to  communicate  itself 
even  to  inanimate  things,  for  the  dinner  was  ready 
just  as  it  was  wanted  and  the  carving-knife  was 
sharp  for  once,  and  the  claret  just  the  right  tem 
perature.  The  dinner-table  looked  extraordinarily 
festive  with  the  twelve-light  candelabra  Gudrun  had 
borrowed  from  the  Manor-house,  and  the  twigs  of 
balsam  circling  each  plate. 

There  were  no  long  silences  to-night,   for  even 


146  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

Hammerdale,  having  a  faithful  interpreter,  managed 
somehow  to  follow  the  course  of  the  conversation 
and  even  to  give  it  a  fillip  down  some  new  road  by 
a  word  now  and  then  that  revealed  what  occasionally 
seemed  to  the  pastor  and  his  wife  a  startlingly 
heretical  point  of  view.  But  Adam  felt  a  little  dif 
ferent  toward  heresy  than  he  had  the  previous  even 
ing.  Heresy,  after  all,  he  dimly  discerned,  is  of 
heaven  or  hell  according  to  the  lips  that  utter  it; 
and  he  received  with  an  equanimity,  which  a  day  be 
fore  he  would  have  deemed  in  itself  heretical,  the 
information  that  America  had  no  national  church 
and  yet  survived,  that  women  voted  in  certain  states 
and  took  part  in  public  affairs  in  all;  and  that  mar 
ried  men  on  the  whole  appeared  as  brave,  noble  and 
happy  a  company  where  the  wives  were  considered 
intellectually  and  spiritually  their  equals  as  in  coun 
tries  where  they  were  sentimentally  idealized  but 
actually  regarded  as  inferior.  Adam  balked,  how 
ever,  at  that  last. 

"We  Germans/'  he  protested,  "know  that  there 
are  no  women  like  our  German  women." 

Gudrun  knitted  her  brows  a  little.  "German 
women  in  the  abstract,  perhaps,"  she  said  slowly. 
"But  your  wives?" 

The  pastor  tried  to  meet  her  gaze,  but  the  in 
truding  memory  of  certain  questions  and  answers 
through  a  crack  in  a  door  made  the  feat  difficult. 
Moreover,  he  felt  Esperanza's  blue,  childlike  eyes 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  147 

fastened  on  his  face.     "Are  we  not  kind  to   our 
wives?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Kind — yes,"  Gudrun  answered.  "Often,  I  think, 
devotedly  kind.  But  is  it  only  kindness  you  as  a 
man  would  ask  of  another  man  whom  you  considered 
your  equal?" 

"Kindness  is  much,"  said  the  pastor  warily,  seeing 
rapids  ahead. 

Gudrun  looked  into  space  as  if  to  remove  the 
discussion  from  the  perils  of  the  purely  personal 
which  direct  address  involved.  "Kindness,"  she 
said,  "has  always  seemed  to  me  destructive  where 
respect  did  not  go  with  it.  I  do  not  mean,"  she1 
continued  quickly,  "the  merely  conventional  respect 
men  give  to  any  outwardly  virtuous  woman  because 
she  is  a  woman,  but  the  true  respect  which  men  have 
for  their  equals  of  their  own  sex.  To  these  they 
give  their  best,  and  seek  eagerly  the  best  in  them, 
both  growing  by  the  exchange,  because  there  is 
no  condescension  anywhere,  but  perfect  independence 
of  mind  and  soul.  I  have  not  seen  enough  of  the 
lives  of  married  people  in  America  to  judge  whether 
this  respect  is  common  there.  Perhaps  it  is  unusual 
there,  too,  though  I  saw  many  examples  of  it.  But 
I  am  sure  it  is  very  rare  in  our  country." 

"But  we  Germans  respect  our  wives,"  protested 
the  pastor. 

She  withdrew  her  gaze  abruptly  from  infinity  and 
looked  up  into  the  pastor's  face  as  she  spoke.  There 
was  an  appealing  eagerness  in  her  own,  as  though 


1 48  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

she  were  on  the  trail  of  a  truth  and  were  follow 
ing  the  scent  hot-foot. 

"Ah,  respect,"  she  cried,  uof  course,  respect.  But 
respect  in  the  sense  that  I  mean  it,  the  respect  for 
judgment  as  well  as  for  mere  virtue  ?" 

Esperanza  came  to  her  husband's  rescue.  "Per 
haps  it  is  the  wife's  fault  when  her  husband  cannot 
respect  her." 

"Marriage  is  made  difficult  over  here  and  is  care 
fully  guarded,"  Gudrun  replied.  "A  man  is  sup 
posed  to  know  before  marriage  whether  he  shall 
be  able  to  respect  his  wife.  He  does  a  woman  a 
great  wrong  if  he  marries  her  without  being  very 
sure  of  that." 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Esperanza,  speaking  slowly 
and  with  evident  difficulty,  "do  you  think  Adam 
should  not  have  married  me?" 

The  pastor  flushed  deeply. 

"Dear  girl,  what  a  question!"  Gudrun  exclaimed, 
clasping  her  hand.  "You  know  I  think  you  are 
quite  too  good  for  him."  She  turned  quickly  to 
Adam,  trying  to  steer  the  skiff  out  of  the  eddies 
with  a  feigned  gaiety  of  tone.  "Don't  you  think  so, 
Herr  Pastor?" 

"You  must  not  ask  him  that,  Fraulein  Gudrun," 
said  Esperanza  quietly. 

"Oh,  I  do  not  need  to,"  Gudrun  cried. 

"Life  has  many  turnings,"  said  Adam  at  last, 
"and  sometimes  we  lose  our  way." 

"This    goose    is    certainly    bang-up,"    remarked 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  149 

Hammerdale  calmly,  as  though  geese  had  been  the 
subject  of  conversation.  "I  shall  certainly  have  to 
export  some  of  her  progeny  to  Colorado,  and  grow 
famous." 

The  pastor  sighed  in  relief,  and  Gudrun,  who 
felt  guilty  and  stupid  for  not  having  divined  in 
time  whither  the  talk  was  leading,  gave  the  foot 
of  her  vis-a-vis  a  grateful  pressure.  But  Esperanza 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  gazing  with  troubled  eyes 
at  her  husband. 

They  adjourned  to  the  Christmas  room  when 
Gudrun  and  Esperanza  had  cleared  the  table,  and 
lit  the  half-burnt  candles  again.  Adam  was  silent, 
evidently  depressed  or  preoccupied  with  his  own 
meditations ;  and  Esperanza  talked  only  in  monosyl 
lables,  eyeing  her  good  man  furtively  now  and  then 
to  see  if  he  bore  her  any  resentment.  The  joyous 
spirit  that  had  animated  them  before  was  utterly 
vanished.  Hammerdale  felt  as  though  somebody 
had  robbed  him  of  a  valued  possession. 

But  the  spirit  was  not  gone  beyond  returning. 
It  flickered  in  the  offing  as  the  first  candle  flickered 
anew  on  the  tree,  and  entered  in  before  the  nuts  and 
cookies  had  made  their  second  round.  Esperanza, 
for  one,  could  not  long  remain  depressed  while  she 
was  telling  herself  (every  ten  minutes)  that,  praise 
God,  all  the  dishes  had  been  washed  now  two  even 
ings  in  succession.  She  felt  very  much  the  luxurious 
lady,  sitting  in  a  sofa-corner  after  dinner  instead  of 


150  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

laboring  in  a  greasy  kitchen  till  she  dropped.  Life 
was  decidedly  looking  up. 

Gudrun  was  careful  this  time  to  direct  the  talk 
along  safe  highways;  and  at  last,  after  a  lengthy 
pause  which  intimated  that  the  subject  of  travel  in 
foreign  lands  might  be  exhausted,  she  abruptly 
brought  it  to  her  own  affairs. 

"We  are  to  be  married  the  middle  of  March," 
she  said.  "Probably  the  I2th.  That  is  the  latest 
possible  date,  for  Jimmie  must  get  back  to  his  work. 
Will  you  marry  us,  Herr  Pastor ?" 

The  pastor  drew  a  deep  breath.  "If  you  wish, 
yes,"  he  said.  Esperanza  felt  annoyed  that  he  did 
not  say  more.  Adam  was  stolid. 

"I  do  wish  it,"  Gudrun  answered.  "I  wish  it  very 
much." 

"Good,"  he  said  quietly,  and  taking  a  notebook 
from  his  pocket  wrote  down  the  date. 

"Funny  devil,"  remarked  Hammerdale  to  him 
self.  "Shows  more  enthusiasm  over  a  cigar." 

They  sat  for  another  half  hour  before  the  fra 
grant  tree  talking  of  unimportant  things  in  a  quiet, 
familiar,  unconventional  way  that  brought  them  all 
closer  together  than  they  had  yet  been.  Finally 
they  talked  not  at  all,  but  gazed  at  the  dying  lights, 
peaceful  with  the  unspoken  assurance  of  friend 
ship.  Adam  took  a  deep  breath  or  two  which  only 
Hammerdale  noted,  then  turned  his  eyes  slowly  on 
Gudrun.  He  was  sitting  with  his  chin  sunk  on  his 
breast,  and  his  eyes,  staring  from  under  the  heavy 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  151 

brows,  spoke  with  such  utter  candor  of  devotion 
that  Hammerdale  felt  ashamed,  as  though  he  had 
caught  himself  reading  another  man's  diary.  Their 
gaze  was  wistful,  tender,  and  protective  as  a  father's, 
seeming  to  say,  "You  are  going  a  long  way  off.  I 
wonder  what  life  will  do  to  you."  And  gradually 
it  grew  brighter,  more  intense,  the  gaze  of  a  man 
crying  after  ten  years  of  silent  loving  for  a  word,  a 
touch  of  love  as  deep  as  his  to  give  him  courage 
for  the  silent  years  to  come.  Hammerdale  saw  his 
sudden,  low  gasp  as  a  hand  dropped  softly  on  his 
arm.  It  was  only  Esperanza's  hand,  but  the  hunger 
died  in  Adam's  eyes  and  his  face  grew  peaceful  again 
as  it  turned  once  more  to  the  twinkling  tree. 

At  last  Gudrun  and  Hammerdale  stood  saying 
good-bye.  And  the  pastor  pressed  Gudrun's  hand 
as  he  stood  huge  and  straight  beside  the  tree.  "You 
have  given  me  less  than  three  months  to  make  myself 
worthy,"  he  said  as  simply  as  though  that  were 
the  inevitable  thing  to  say. 

Something  in  Gudrun's  eyes  fluttered  like  an  un 
seen  swallow  reflected  in  a  spring.  "Do  you  think 
you  are  the  only  one,"  she  murmured,  "who  must 
grow  worthy  in  these  three  months?" 

"God  help  us  all  then,"  answered  Adam. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "God  help  us  all." 

Gudrun  and  the  American  were  standing  at  the 
open  door  of  the  Manor-house  when  Hammerdale 
broke  the  silence  they  had  maintained  on  their  walk 


152  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

home.     "The  pastor  is  a  wonderful  man,"  he  said. 

"I  think  he  is  a  good  man,"  she  answered  grate 
fully.  "I  have  never  thought  of  him  as  wonderful 
exactly." 

"He  is  the  only  man  I  have  ever  met,"  said  Ham- 
merdale,  and  his  voice  was  almost  reverent,  "who 
seemed  able  to  love  absolutely  without  an  eye  for 
the  reward." 

"Oh,  Jimmie,  you  mean ?" 

"Yes." 

They  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER   IX 

IN  WHICH  A  DREAM-COME-TO-LIFE  MEETS  THE  OGRE 
AT  A  CROSSROADS  AND  POINTS  HIM  THE  WAY 

Two  people  did  not  find  slumber  with  the  rest  of 
Wenkendorf  that  cold  and  placid  Christmas  night. 
One  was  Pastor  Adam,  fighting  his  way,  inch  by 
laborious  inch,  through  his  Christmas  sermon;  the 
other  was  Gudrun.  The  pastor  had  a  wet  towel 
round  his  head  and  coffee  by  his  side;  Gudrun  was 
robed  in  scarlet  and  her  black  hair  was  loose.  And 
it  happened  that  their  minds  were  both  traversing 
the  same  road. 

Adam's  travels  down  the  highways  and  byways 
of  memory,  be  it  said,  were  not  voluntary.  He  was 
honestly  trying  with  all  the  force  of  his  will  to 
concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  little  white  sheets 
beneath  his  hand,  but,  as  on  the  previous  evening, 
invaders  came  in  great  flocks,  storming  the  citadel  till 
his  Teuton  sense  of  duty  wavered  and  all  but  gave 
in.  Grimly,  however,  he  held  the  fort.  A  Christmas 
service  without  a  sermon  was  as  unthinkable  a  propo 
sition  as  a  meal  without  food.  So  he  tried  to  re 
member  all  the  great  and  good  things  which  other 

153 


154  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

people  had  said  about  the  birth  of  Christ,  firstly, 
secondly  and  thirdly,  defying  the  beckoning  dreams. 
As  the  sermon  grew,  he  realized  that  it  was  hodge 
podge,  that  half  of  it  was  nonsense  and  the  rest 
of  it  was  cant;  and  the  nobler  part  of  him  squirmed. 
But  there  was  no  time  for  the  examination  of 
scruples.  He  gulped  his  coffee,  cried  almost  pite- 
ously  to  the  dear  tormenting  spirit  to  leave  him 
to  do  his  work  in  peace,  and  wrote. 

Gudrun,  on  her  part,  was  fighting  no  battles.  She 
had  gone  to  bed  thinking  she  was  tired  enough  to 
sleep,  but  the  room  had  seemed  suddenly  alive  with 
flitting  images  and  voices,  and  she  had  leapt  up 
quickly  and  lit  the  light  to  escape  the  luminous  faces 
grinning  at  her  from  the  dark.  The  coal  fire  in 
the  grate  was  not  beyond  rescue,  and  she  poked  it 
into  life,  wondering  whimsically  whether  it  were 
love  or  roast  goose  that  was  robbing  her  of  sleep. 
She  threw  an  old  opera  coat  over  her  shoulders,  and 
sank  down  in  a  great  armchair  close  to  the  fire. 
But  it  was  neither  love  nor  roast  goose  that  sud 
denly  flooded  her  thoughts.  It  was  Pastor  Adam. 

The  discovery  which  she  and  Hammerdale  had 
simultaneously  made,  that  Adam  loved  her,  gave  her 
a  thrill  which  she  never  in  the  world  would  have 
imagined  the  queer,  self-centered,  noisy  pastor  could 
rouse  in  her.  He  was  so  decidedly  unromantic  a 
figure  to  see.  One  did  not  connect  somehow  a  calm 
persistence  of  unrequited  love  with  such  a  bulky 
frame,  such  an  undeniably  ugly  visage;  nor,  more 
over,  with  such  violent  outbursts  of  temper  as  she 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  155 

had  witnessed,  and  such  crude  egotism.  She  pon 
dered  the  matter  rather  objectively  for  all  the  thrill, 
having  been  trained  by  the  years  to  self-distrust 
rather  than  conceit.  She  did  not  in  her  musings, 
in  fact,  connect  herself,  Gudrun  von  Hallern,  a 
woman,  at  the  moment  sitting  robed  in  a  scarlet 
opera-cloak  in  front  of  an  apology  of  a  fire,  with 
the  pastor's  love  at  all.  Adam,  her  common  sense 
told  her,  had  never  really  been  in  love  with  her.  Her 
face,  entering  his  line  of  vision  at,  possibly,  a  crucial 
period  in  his  life,  had  served  his  lonely  mind  as  an 
habitation  for  the  ideal  it  needed;  an  habitation 
which  he  promptly  proceeded  to  furnish  with  a 
guardian  angel.  Thus,  as  quickly  as  possible,  she 
tried  to  divest  the  romantic  situation  of  its  most 
sentimental  aspects.  But  her  attempt  was  not  en 
tirely  successful.  After  all  the  common  sense,  the 
thrill  remained  to  be  reckoned  with.  She  told  her 
self  that  she  might  as  well  face  the  fact  that  the 
discovery  that  Adam  loved  her  elated  her  very 
much. 

Here  her  conscience  came  to  her  aid.  It  told  her, 
with  not  entirely  convincing  sternness,  that  she 
should  be  distressed  at  Adam's  devotion,  that  it 
was  quite  out  of  place  in  a  minister  of  the  Gospel 
who  happened  to  have  a  good  wife  of  his  own  to 
love  even  an  idea  or  an  ideal  when  it  was  gar 
mented  in  the  personality  of  the  betrothed  of  an 
other  man;  and  that  it  was  wicked  of  her,  moreover, 
to  have  inspired  such  affection.  She  smiled  broadly 
at  that  effort  of  her  painstaking  conscience;  she 


156  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

had  been  so  completely  innocent,  ever,  of  any  wiles 
against  the  somber  parson.  The  thought  was  glori 
ously  grotesque,  and  she  laughed  softly  to  herself 
at  the  picture  that  presented  itself  to  her  mind  of 
Gudrun  von  Hallern  in  the  role  of  Potiphar's  wife, 
laying  traps  for  Joseph.  Her  conscience,  therefore, 
was  scarcely  more  effective  than  her  common  sense 
in  quenching  the  undeniable  elation.  She  had  not 
had  a  superabundance  of  love  in  her  life,  and  here, 
unexpectedly,  was  a  love  such  as  the  poets  sing  of, 
pure,  chivalrous,  unregarding  of  itself,  and  it  had 
been  hers,  unguessed,  for  nearly  half  her  days. 
What  if  the  lover  were  as  queer  a  Dick  as  ever 
thundered  from  a  pulpit?  There  must  be  some 
beauty,  some  unsuspected  bigness  beneath  the  gar 
goyle  exterior.  For  unselfish  love,  as  Jimmie  had 
remarked,  was  rare;  and  the  man  who  could  cling  so 
tenaciously  to  an  ideal  was  not  to  be  laughed  out 
of  court.  She  decided  that  the  angels  above  might 
not  impossibly  give  a  better  report  of  Pastor  Adam 
than  his  neighbors  could,  the  shortcomings  of  some 
men  being  so  palpable  and  clear  to  the  eye,  their  vir 
tues  so  deeply  concealed;  and  the  thrill  remained. 
Not  even  the  thought  of  poor,  unloved  Esperanza 
could,  in  the  first  glow  of  her  discovery,  more  than 
momentarily  cloud  the  elation.  The  whole  matter 
was  so  impossibly  romantic,  so  unreal,  that  she  lay 
back  in  her  chair  as  though  she  were  at  a  play,  bask 
ing  in  the  unworldliness  of  it  all  and  thinking  no 
more  of  examining  it  with  reference  to  the  ethical 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  157 

responsibilities  it  involved  than  she  would  have 
thought  of  similarly  examining  the  story  of  Puss  in 
Boots.  Even  Hammerdale  slipped,  for  the  instant, 
into  the  background,  not,  be  it  said,  as  a  thing  that 
is  discarded,  even  temporarily,  but  rather  as  one 
that  is  accepted  so  absolutely  that  it  transcends 
pigeon-holes.  It  was  just  as  well  for  the  pastor's 
sense  of  duty  that  he  did  not  know  that,  while  he 
was  painfully  grinding  out  phrase  on  pious  phrase, 
he  was  having  his  hour  in  the  heart  of  Gudrun. 

For  during  the  quiet  session  of  that  Christmas 
night  conscience  and  common  sense  drifted  off  to 
sleep,  though  Gudrun  did  not,  and  left  the  field,  un 
hindered,  to  the  fantastic  spirit  of  memory.  Pic 
ture  after  picture  it  conjured  up  and  erased,  comedy, 
tragedy,  farce,  all  intermingled.  Ten  years  it  went 
back  to  a  cherry-morning  which  she,  too,  remem 
bered,  and  thence  along  past  dim  half-forgotten  inci 
dents  of  childhood  and  youth  into  less  happy  woman 
hood.  For  the  first  time  she  read  the  meaning  of 
this  word  of  the  pastor's,  and  that  glance;  feeling 
more  poignantly  than  ever  before  her  guilt  in  let 
ting  her  girlhood's  ardor  die  so  woefully  in  the 
vanity  of  her  young  womanhood.  She  thought  of 
the  men  she  had  known,  of  Max  and  of  others  who 
went  before,  butterflies  all.  Adam  had  watched  them 
come  and  go,  loving  her  in  spite  of  them,  in  spite 
even  of  herself.  That  thought  stung — that  she  who 
could  inspire  so  pure  a  love  should  have  proved 
herself  so  obviously  unworthy  of  it.  How  had  the 


158  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

pastor's  love  ever  survived  her  engagement  to  that 
talented  fashion-plate,  Count  Max? 

Then  came  the  inevitable  query,  bringing  her  sud 
denly  back  into  the  present — why  had  Adam  mar 
ried  Esperanza?  She  remembered  that  his  engage 
ment  had  followed  close  on  the  heels  of  her  own. 
Disillusion,  perhaps.  The  thought  rankled.  It  was 
not  pleasant  to  feel  responsible  for  the  domestic  in 
felicity  of  the  parsonage.  She  sat  upright  in  her 
chair.  She  was  responsible,  of  course.  Because 
of  her  Adam  had  married  the  wrong  person;  and 
here  still  she  stood,  a  shadow  between  Adam  and 
his  wife. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  shiver  and  began 
pacing  the  floor.  Why  did  one's  sins  return  to  stone 
one  in  this  fashion?  What  subtle  punishment!  The 
fact  that  no  one  had  forced  Esperanza,  as  far  as 
she  knew,  to  marry  Adam  did  not  at  the  moment 
make  her  moral  responsibility  for  the  ill-considered 
marriage  seem  any  the  less.  What  could  she  do  to 
make  up  to  them  both  for  her  part  in  their  pathetic 
mistake?  She  smiled  at  the  question,  to  think  that 
she,  who  could  not  even  solve  her  own  problem, 
should  be  puzzling  her  head  over  another's. 

Chilled  and  miserable,  with  no  spark  of  the  early 
elation,  she  turned  to  the  window.  The  long  white 
slope  below  shone  dimly,  for  the  moon  had  set. 
There  were  no  stars.  The  dark  sky  seemed  close 
as  a  prison-wall.  She  wondered  if  she  would  botch 
things  again  as  she  had  botched  them  five  years  ago. 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  159 

What  vanity  aspiration  without  will-power  was, 
since  a  person  with  such  good  intentions  could  make 
such  a  mess  of  life.  She  had  humor  enough  left 
after  her  sleepless  night  to  remark  to  herself  that 
here  her  scruples  were  running  off  into  nonsense, 
for  she  had  not  made  a  mess  of  life  and  had  no  in 
tention  of  doing  so.  She  looked  at  the  clock.  It 
pointed  to  four-thirty,  and  with  a  faintly  ironic 
smile  she  recalled  something  she  had  read  some 
where  about  the  activities  of  the  human  conscience 
between  the  hours  of  two  and  five  in  the  morning. 

She  climbed  into  bed  once  more,  hoping  that  her 
mental  exhaustion  would  induce  slumber,  but  the 
dark  seemed  to  breed  faces,  now  her  mother's,  now 
Jimmie's,  now  Esperanza's;  most  insistent  of  all,  the 
face  of  Pastor  Adam.  At  last  she  drifted  off  into  a 
cloudy  No-Man's-Land  between  sleeping  and  wak 
ing,  through  which  the  faces  pursued  each  other  with 
dizzying  speed — Esperanza,  and  chasing  her,  Adam; 
and  after  Adam  her  mother,  and  after  her  mother 
Jimmie  Hammerdale.  It  was  all  absurd  and  nerve- 
racking.  She  wondered  why  she  couldn't  go  to 
sleep,  and  why  she  couldn't  wake  up. 

The  day,  coming  in  at  her  window  between  seven 
and  eight,  chased  the  band  of  ghastly  marionettes 
off  the  stage,  and  recalled  her  definitely  to  reality. 
She  rose,  heavy-eyed  and  depressed. 

The  scarlet  opera-cloak  across  the  foot  of  her 
bed  recalled  her  gloomy  pacings  to  and  fro,  and 
deepened  her  gloom.  But  the  east  was  sending 


160  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

bright  shafts  into  the  deep  blue  of  a  cloudless  sky, 
and  she  dressed  quickly  to  seek  the  out-of-doors 
before  the  rest  of  the  household  should  be  about. 
On  her  way  downstairs  she  listened  at  Hammer- 
dale's  door  an  instant.  There  was  no  sound.  Deem 
ing  it  poor  charity  to  startle  him  out  of  sleep,  she 
tiptoed  away  and  went  forth  alone. 

Her  feet  were  the  first  to  break  the  perfect 
smoothness  of  the  white  wood-paths.  She  sank  to 
her  shoe-tops  in  the  snow,  but  the  snow  was  feather- 
light  and  seemed  scarcely  to  impede  her  vigorous 
stride.  Her  depression  and  even  her  physical  weari 
ness  seemed  to  vanish.  She  felt  like  a  fairy  prince 
invading  an  enchanted  land  no  human  eyes  had 
gazed  upon,  for  unbroken  perfection  of  white  beauty 
was  everywhere.  On  the  meadows  bordering  the 
forest  no  deer  or  rabbit  had  yet  cut  his  swift  trail, 
and  on  the  boughs  no  wing-tip  had  fluttered  away 
a  flake  of  the  perfect  arch.  Without  asking  herself 
whither  she  was  going  she  walked  straight  to  the 
familiar  bench.  And  there,  as  she  emerged  from  the 
shadowy  woods  into  the  dazzling  brightness  of 
the  clearing,  she  came  face  to  face  with  Pastor 
Adam. 

He  was  obviously  startled,  for  he  did  not  lift  his 
hat  to  her  or  even  offer  her  a  greeting.  He  stood 
rigid  and  mute.  She,  too,  for  some  reason,  could 
find  nothing  sensible  to  say,  conscious  that  she  was 
not  yet  ready  to  face  Adam  and  his  absurd,  wonder 
ful  devotion.  "You  are  out  in  the  woods  early," 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  161 

she  said  at  last,  knowing  as  she  said  it  that  it  was  a 
stupid  observation  to  make. 

"I  had  work  to  do,"  he  answered.  "I  did  not  go 
to  bed." 

There  were  several  obvious  replies  she  might 
have  made  to  that,  among  them  the  remark  that  if 
she  and  her  good  man  had  not  stayed  so  late  the 
evening  before  the  pastor  need  not  have  spent  the 
night  at  his  desk;  but  she  chose  to  make  none  of 
them.  There  were  a  thousand  weighty  things  she 
wanted  to  say,  ideas  that  quivered  and  shone  in  the 
cavernous  recesses  of  memory,  but  broke  like  bub 
bles  as  she  reached  out  her  hand  to  grasp  them. 
One  and  another  she  held  an  instant,  seeking  a  ve 
hicle  to  bear  it  forth  to  the  outer  world.  And,  as 
each  was  shattered  in  passage,  it  occurred  to  her 
how  absurd  it  was  that  man  had  nothing  better 
than  an  ox-cart  for  the  transportation  of  his  blown 
glass. 

Adam  cleared  the  bench  of  snow,  and  they  sat 
down,  gazing  silently  off  across  the  awakened  white 
ness.  UI  worked  at  my  sermon  all  night,"  said  the 
pastor  at  last.  "I  never  wrote  with  such  difficulty. 
All  I  had  learnt  seemed  to  slip  out  of  my  mind,  and 
the  sermon  would  not  and  would  not  come.  My 
brain  gave  my  fingers  words  to  write,  but  my  soul, 
my  soul  was  elsewhere." 

"How  very  strange,"  said  Gudrun,  thinking  more 
of  her  own  sleepless  night  than  of  his. 

"It  seemed,"  Adam  went  on  slowly,  "it  seemed 


1 62  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

that,  all  the  while  I  was  writing  those  hollow,  mean 
ingless  phrases,  I  was  struggling  to  flee  to  a  different 
world  where  I  might  think  and  speak  of  higher,  won 
derful  things."  He  folded  his  hands  on  his  cane. 
"The  soul  of  man  is  a  strange  thing,  Fraulein  Gud- 
run.  It  comes  from  God,  who  opens  not  his  work 
shop  to  the  eyes  of  his  children;  and  its  ways  are  mys 
terious  as  the  mind  of  its  Maker.  It  has  its  goings- 
out  and  its  comings-in.  It  wanders  over  the  world 
and  looks  in  at  friendly  window-panes;  it  has  its 
comrades;  it  has  its  happy  hours.  We  are  curious 
creatures,  Fraulein  Gudrun,  palpitating  like  leaves  in 
the  wind  beneath  this  stolid  disguise  of  mortality." 

He  paused;  and  as  Gudrun  looked  into  his  face 
she  marveled  to  see  how  softened  the  lines  were. 
She  noted  again  the  high  broad  forehead  with  the 
close-cropped  hair,  the  large  nose  and  mouth,  the 
slightly  cadaverous  cheeks,  the  ogre's  mustache,  but 
over  the  familiar  features  lay  a  nobler  light  than 
Gudrun  had  yet  seen  there.  "Is  this  the  real  Pas 
tor  Adam?"  she  said  to  herself.  There  was  a  deep 
tenderness  about  the  eyes,  a  wistful  droop  about 
the  corners  of  the  mouth  that  seemed  strangely  out 
of  place  amid  the  parson's  aggressively  masculine 
features.  The  feminine  qualities,  which  seemed  so 
utterly  lacking  in  the  man  she  knew,  were  reflected 
here,  and  she  marveled,  asking  herself  whether  she 
had  been  blind  in  thinking  of  Adam  as  harsh  or 
tyrannical. 

Adam  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  beside  the 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  163 

bench.  "Why  have  you  come  here  this  morning?" 
he  asked  with  scarcely  suppressed  excitement. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  came,"  Gudrun  answered 
helplessly.  "I  didn't  think  where  I  was  going.  I 
just  came.  I  might  ask  you,  mightn't  I,  why  did  you 
come?" 

Adam  stopped  in  his  nervous  promenade.  "I 
was  impelled." 

"Are  we  not  rather  too  tragic  for  Christmas 
morning?"  Gudrun  asked  after  another  long  pause. 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  he  answered  heavily.  "I 
will  not  cloud  your  holiday  further." 

"Oh,  -don't  misunderstand  me." 

"No.  But  you  are  right."  He  reached  out  his 
hand.  "Good-bye.  Your  Tchimi — he  is  a  good 
man.  Good-bye." 

She  pressed  the  hand  he  held  out,  and  noticed  for 
the  first  time  how  feverish  he  looked.  "Oh,  are  you 
ill,  Herr  Pastor?" 

He  shook  his  head.     "I  am  tired." 

"You  must  not  go  away  yet.  I  wish  you  would 
rest  a  few  minutes,  and  we'll  go  home  together. 
Please." 

"Let  me  go,  Fraulein  Gudrun.     It  is  better." 

"As  you  wish,  of  course." 

He  took  her  hand  once  more,  and  Gudrun,  feeling 
his  hand  tremble,  cast  a  quick,  frightened  glance  up 
at  his  face.  His  lips  were  set  tight  and  his  eyes  were 
half  closed.  She  felt  his  grasp  relax,  then  tighten 
suddenly.  He  bent  down  and,  before  she  could  with- 


1 64  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

draw  her  hand,  kissed  it  with  an  intensity  of  love 
that  startled  and  stirred  her  all  the  more  because  it 
was  reverent.  She  caught  her  breath  and  drew  her 
hand  away,  looking  up  at  him  with  suddenly  knock 
ing  heart. 

"Pastor  Samuels,"  she  cried  faintly.  "What  are 
you  thinking  of?  Oh,  don't  do  anything  like  that 
again,  ever." 

He  noted  the  pain  in  her  voice,  and  turned  away. 
"Forgive,  forgive,"  he  whispered  in  a  hoarse,  un 
natural  voice,  not  daring  to  face  her. 

"Oh,  you  must  never  do  that  again." 

He  turned  to  her  once  more,  for  her  voice  told 
him  that  he  was  losing  for  always  the  one  being  he 
needed  most.  He  stood  before  her  with  bowed  head. 
"Forgive,"  he  murmured  again  and  again.  "I  al 
ways  said  to  myself  that  I  would  not  for  the  world 
have  you  know.  Forgive.  For  ten  years  I  have  said 
it.  It  is  a  long  time."  There  was  just  a  hint  of  self- 
pity  in  his  voice,  which  Gudrun  did  not  fail  to  note. 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  I  always  respected  you  so 
much,"  she  said  slowly,  "because  I  felt  that  there 
were  forces  in  your  heart  which  you  were  big  enough 
to  hold  in  control."  She  paused.  "Hadn't  we  better 
laugh  a  little  now?"  she  added,  looking  up  into  his 
face  with  a  smile  that  was  friendly,  but  not  without 
distress. 

"Laugh?"  he  asked,  frowning. 

"Yes,  so  that  we  shall  not  have  to  weep  in  the 
end.  This  is  all  not  as  serious  as  it  sounds.  You  are 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  165 

confused — that  is  all.  You  have  merely  mixed  me 
up  with  some  theological  abstraction  of  yours.  Don't 
let  us  be  so  serious.  I  don't  want  to  have  to  be  sorry 
for  this  meeting  this  morning,  or  for  yesterday  and 
the  day  before.  They  were  too  good.  We  must  not 
spoil  the  memory.  We  don't  want  to  be  sorry." 

He  stood  before  her,  huge  and  black  and  very 
ogre-like,  save  for  the  eyes  which  were  not  fierce 
at  all.  "You  need  not  feel  sorry,  Fraulein  Gud- 
run,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing  that  you  or  I 
need  feel  sorry  for. 

"My  love  has  been  clean.  There  has  been  no  de 
sire  in  it.  I  am  grateful  for  it  above  all  other  things. 
I  came  to  you  out  of  hell.  I  had  gone  from  parish 
to  parish,  pursued  now  by  the  evil  of  my  past,  now 
by  my  laggard  present.  In  one  parish  I  was  five 
years.  That  was  at  Stromau  in  Silesia.  It  was  from 
there  that  I  came  to  Wenkendorf.  Stromau  was 
ignominy.  There  I  drank  the  dregs."  He  paused, 
and  Gudrun  pitied  him  for  the  bitterness  and  pain 
in  his  eyes.  "In  my  first  week  here  I  found  you," 
he  went  on.  "You  were  a  child  then — twelve  or 
thirteen.  I  had  known  only  the  love  that  is  a  raging 
torrent  of  fire.  I  had  been  tossed  upon  it,  and  it 
had  seared  my  soul.  But  you  taught  me  the  love 
that  is  a  crystal  river  flowing  silently  to  the  sea. 
For  that  knowledge  I  can  give  you  only  thanks." 

Adam  was  silent,  and  Gudrun,  with  loudly  beating 
heart,  leaned  back,  struggling  for  words.  A  light 
gust  blew  the  snow  from  a  beech-bough  gossamer- 


1 66  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

like  across  their  line  of  vision,  and  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  a  doe,  with  ears  pricked,  listened  fear- 
somely  for  the  sound  of  human  voices. 

Common  sense  and  a  cool  understanding  of  the 
fitness  of  things,  as  the  world,  for  good  or  ill,  sees 
it,  were  neither  benumbed  nor  asleep  in  Gudrun  as 
they  had  been  during  her  semiconscious  vigil  the 
night  before.  She  said  to  herself  that  this  sort  of 
thing  would  not  do  at  all,  that  Adam  was  hopelessly 
sentimental,  and  must  be  set  straight  at  all  hazards. 
But  ways  and  means  baffled  her.  She  was  too  grate 
ful  for  his  belief  in  her,  unfounded  as  that  belief 
to  her  seemed,  to  risk  wounding  him.  But  Adam's 
complete  disregard  of  that  one  being  to  whom  every 
fiber  of  him  should  turn  in  thankfulness  and  loyalty, 
faintly  roused  her  ire. 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you,"  she  said  at  last,  "how 
much  your  friendship  means  to  me,  but,  oh,  I  can't 
think  of  anything  but  Esperanza." 

The  pastor  nodded  his  head.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  an 
swered  slowly.  "Our  marriage  was  a  mistake." 

Gudrun's  anger  cooled  as  she  recalled  that  she 
was  not  quite  unresponsible  for  that  marriage. 
"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked.  "Is  it  so  hopeless?" 

"I  see  no  hope,"  Adam  replied. 

"You  have  given  me  so  much,"  Gudrun  cried. 
"If  you  could  only  turn  it  to  Esperanza!  I  have 
so  much  to  make  me  happy  now.  Esperanza  has 
the  children,  but  it  is  you  that  she  wants.  You 
understand.  Oh,  I  am  grateful  for  your  friendship. 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  167 

But  can't  you  see  what  it  would  mean  to  me  if  I 
could  think  that  I  had  been  some  help,  instead  of 
only  an  obstacle,  to  your  happiness?" 

"You  have  been  the  only  happiness  I  have 
known,"  he  answered. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  I.  Not  this  poor, 
struggling  creature  that  is  the  real  Gudrun.  You 
imagined  me  quite  otherwise,  didn't  you?  Con 
fess.  You  thought  me  a  lovely  being  quite  impas- 
sionate,  quite  unhuman,  half  a  saint  and  altogether 
too  good  for  this  wicked,  wicked  world."  She 
turned  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  half  rueful, 
half  mischievous  smile.  "I'm  not  quite  that,  am  I? 
Don't  you  find,  on  the  whole,  that  I'm  a  little  dif 
ferent  on  nearer  acquaintance  from  what  you  sup 
posed?  Not  near  so  good,  not  near  so  lovely — just 
an  everyday,  nice  sort  of  young  lady,  whom  the 
saints  will  not  miss  when  you  withdraw  her  image 
from  their  company." 

A  cloud  of  displeasure  crossed  Adam's  face. 

"Yes,  Herr  Pastor,"  she  went  on  in  the  same 
tones  of  gentle  levity.  "Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  am  making 
fun  of  you.  Shall  I  tell  you  some  more  about  this 
ivory  statue  of  yours?  You  thought  she  was  a  very 
proper,  conservative,  little  statue,  didn't  you?  You 
thought  she  was  a  quiet  bide-at-home — and,  look, 
my  dreams  are  all  of  a  country  six  thousand  miles 
away.  You  thought  she  was  obedient — and  here 
I've  openly  defied  my  mother.  You  thought  she 
was  a  porcelain  shepherdess  from  Dresden,  and  I 


1 68  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

am  clearing  my  throat  to  shout  for  women's  rights. 
Herr  Pastor,  I  think  you  have  not  been  loving  me 
at  all."  Her  voice  became  gentler  and  there  was 
less  of  laughter  in  it.  "For  ten  years  you  have 
been  loving  a  dream." 

Adam,  listening,  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  cane, 
lifted  his  head.  "You  are  trying  to  disillusion  me. 
You  are  right  in  saying  that  I  did  not  know  you. 
But  what  can  you  say  to  disillusion  me  when  I  tell 
you  that,  knowing  you  as  I  know  you  now,  I  think 
you  are  nobler  and  more  worthy  of  a  man's  devotion 
than  I  dreamed?" 

Gudrun  leaned  back  against  the  bench  with  a 
sigh.  "Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed  in  despair.  "Why 
do  you  let  your  head  think  such  things?  Can  it  be," 
she  went  on  slowly,  feeling  her  way,  and  deciding 
to  take  a  chance,  "can  it  be  that  you  are  a  sentimen 
talist?" 

She  watched  his  face  closely,  noting  the  sudden 
stiffening  of  the  lips,  the  quick  rising  of  the  blood. 

"So?"  he  said  at  last,  drawing  out  the  word  so 
that  it  seemed  almost  a  moan.  "I  am  only  a  fool  to 
you  after  all." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Gudrun  cried.     "Don't  misunder 
stand  me.     I  mean  only  that  you  are  giving  yourself 
too  much  to  a  dream,  that  you  are  deceiving  your 
self  and  making  yourself  and  others  unhappy." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  gloomily. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  him  again,  watching  him 
closely.  "I  cannot  get  Esperanza  out  of  my  head." 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  169 

At  that  he  rose  abruptly.  "Fraulein  Gudrun," 
he  said,  with  the  faintest  suggestion  of  impatience, 
"you  do  not  understand  me.  And  you  do  not  un 
derstand  my  wife." 

"I  wonder,"  Gudrun  thought. 

Down  the  path  from  the  Manor-house,  plow 
ing  his  way  vigorously  through  the  snow,  came  Jim- 
mie  Hammerdale.  "Hello,  hello !"  he  shouted  as  he 
spied  them,  "hello,  and  merry  Christmas!" 

Adam  flushed  and  grew  rigid.  Evidently,  he  ex 
pected  a  jealous  scene  from  Jimmie.  He  became 
restless  inside.  He  had  to  admit  to  himself  that  his 
position  was  open  to  misunderstanding.  But  Gud 
run  smiled  quietly,  reaching  out  her  left  hand  to 
Hammerdale  as  he  approached,  and  her  right  to 
the  rigid,  frowning  pastor  standing  before  her. 
"What  have  I  done,"  she  cried,  "to  deserve  the 
friendship  of  you  both?"  She  spoke  in  German, 
but  Hammerdale  understood  the  crucial  word,  and 
it  gave  him  the  key  to  the  situation.  He  gave  the 
pastor  his  hand,  and  thus,  a  closed  circle,  they  re 
mained,  it  seemed,  a  minute  or  more. 

"Three  of  us  now,"  said  Gudrun.  "But  the  cir 
cle  will  not  be  complete  until  there  is  a  fourth." 

Adam  let  his  hands  fall.  "You  do  not  under 
stand,"  he  repeated,  and  strode  off  into  the  forest. 


CHAPTER   X 

IN    WHICH    THE    OGRE    REGARDS    HIMSELF    IN    THE 
LOOKING-GLASS 

PASTOR  ADAM  strode  home  through  the  woods, 
and  his  being  was  like  a  cauldron,  seething  and 
steaming.  With  full  force  the  realization  of  what 
he  had  said  and  done  came  over  him.  He  must 
have  been  insane,  he  cried  out,  to  tell  Gudrun  of 
his  love.  This  treasure  of  his  that  he  had  always 
kept  so  carefully  hidden — what  had  possessed  him 
to  spill  it  out  as  a  boy  spills  out  his  heart  to  his 
first  love?  He  blamed  somewhat  his  physical  state. 
He  was  feverish  after  his  sleepless  night,  and  the 
constant  battle  between  his  will,  holding  him  down 
to  his  sermon,  and  his  inclination,  leading  him  off 
into  dreams  of  Gudrun,  had  worn  out  his  strength, 
and  must  have  dazed  him.  Once,  in  a  moment  of 
exhaustion,  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  wafted 
out  into  farthest  space,  and  had  seen  Gudrun  and 
talked  with  her.  It  was  under  the  influence  of  this 
dream  that  he  had  spoken.  He  must  have  been  only 
half  conscious  even  then,  as  he  stood  beside  the 
bench,  seemingly  wide  awake.  But  how  strange 

170 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  171 

that  he  should  have  met  Gudrun  actually  so  soon 
after  his  dream.  Possibly,  he  had  not  been  romanc 
ing  when  he  had  said  that  he  had  been  impelled. 
The  soul  of  man  was  a  wild,  untetherable  thing  of 
unimagined  farings. 

He  grew  hot  and  cold  as  he  thought  of  his  words 
of  love,  and  sick  at  heart  as  he  remembered  with 
what  unpardonable  rudeness,  after  all  his  words  of 
devotion,  he  had  left  her.  Why  had  he  been  rude 
to  Gudrun,  repelling  her  efforts  to  bring  harmony 
into  the  parsonage?  Her  intention,  truly,  was  good. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  did  not  want  the  situation 
in  the  parsonage  changed,  that  he  preferred  his 
stony-walled  solitude  to  the  effort  it  would  cost  him 
to  keep  his  house  in  peace?  Slightly  ashamed  of 
himself,  he  admitted  that  this  was  possible.  Gud- 
run's  face  rose  before  him,  smiling  ironically,  and 
calling  him  a  sentimentalist.  He  tried  to  reason  with 
it  and  with  his  own  conscience,  which,  unexpectedly, 
began  to  speak,  taking  Gudrun's  side.  It  seemed 
that,  baldly  expressed,  he  preferred  happy  dreams 
to  happy  realities.  Yes,  that  was  indubitably  senti 
mental.  Gudrun  knew  what  she  was  about  when  she 
called  him  a  sentimentalist.  So  his  thoughts  went 
off  into  new  laudations  of  the  incomparable  lady. 
When  they  returned  reluctantly  to  earth,  he  decided 
that  he  must  bestir  himself  concerning  the  conduct 
of  his  days. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  formulate  plans  as  he 
strode  homeward,  but  he  was  clearly  aware  that 


172  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

not  one  side  of  him  only,  but  his  whole  being,  asked 
examination  and  adjustment.  He  was  self-indulgent, 
he  told  himself.  His  life  was  awry.  There  was 
not  enough  of  God  in  it. 

He  caught  his  breath  at  the  familiar  word,  for 
somehow  it  sounded  fresh  and  new  and  inexpressibly 
revealing.  Why  had  it  never  sounded  so  before? 
The  thought  came  to  him  that  this  God  whose  name 
he  had  spoken  was  a  potency  of  the  soul  and  an 
infinitely  more  stirring  proposition  than  the  God 
who  was  just  a  King.  He  quickened  his  pace.  This 
stir  within  him  toward  better  living,  was  this  God? 
Or  was  that  thought  merely  a  heresy  that  the  mod 
ern  mind  seemed  prone  to  fall  into,  and  was  God 
only  a  far-off  Sovereign  after  all?  He  did  not  ar 
gue  the  matter  out.  A  sense  that  he  was  on  the 
border  of  a  new  life  was  strong  upon  him.  His 
heart  was  lighter  than  it  had  been  in  years,  it  seemed. 
Perhaps,  he  had  actually  shed  a  burden  when  he 
had  told  Gudrun  the  story  of  his  love,  the  burden 
of  a  self-centered  dream-existence.  He  felt  that 
a  chapter  in  his  life  was  closed. 

Adam  delivered  the  result  of  his  previous  night's 
labors  promptly  at  ten-thirty  that  morning;  and  it 
was  quite  as  hollow  and  quite  as  meaningless  as  he 
had  suspected.  The  congregation  stood  it,  as  it  had 
learned  to  stand  Pastor  Adam's  sermons,  with  de 
vout  patience  and  an  occasional  snore.  Jimmie 
Hammerdale  arranged  his  face  in  a  pose  of  rapt 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  173 

attention,  and  set  his  mind  to  planning  alterations 
and  improvements  in  a  certain  ranch-house  in  Routt 
County;  but  Gudrun,  overcome  suddenly  by  the  sleep 
she  had  waited  for  in  vain  all  night  long,  nodded 
undeniably,  and  had  to  be  gently  prodded  to  atten 
tion  by  the  ever-watchful  Baroness.  That  lady,  look 
ing  very  melancholy  and  extremely  pious,  did  not 
take  her  eyes  off  the  pulpit,  leaning  comfortably  back 
in  her  pew  with  that  attitude  of  calm  benignity 
wherewith  middle  age  habitually  receives  its  edifica 
tion. 

The  sermon,  contrary  to  Gudrun's  expectations, 
finally  came  to  an  end.  Worn  out  by  the  effort  to 
keep  awake,  she  hurried  manorward  with  Hammer- 
dale;  but  the  Baroness  remained  to  offer  her  Christ 
mas  wishes  and  a  contribution  to  the  pastor's  men 
tal  cupboard.  She  lingered  after  the  rest  of  the 
parishioners  had  gone  and  thanked  him  for  his  up 
lifting  sermon,  looking  up  at  him  with  the  same 
melancholy  sweetness  that  the  Baron  in  desperate 
mood  had  once  declared  was  very  beautiful  to  see 
and  forget,  but  was  worse  than  red  hair  to  live 
with. 

"We  must  advise  together  sometime,  Herr  Pas 
tor,"  she  said  in  mellifluous  tones  perfectly  modu 
lated.  "My  Gudrun  has  become  engaged  against 
my  will.  Possibly  you  know?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  answered  the  pastor,  feeling  a  lit 
tle  guilty,  remembering  how  he  had  housed  the  crimi 
nal. 


174  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

"She  cannot  long  harden  her  heart  against  me/* 
the  Baroness  said  with  such  quiet  conviction  that 
Adam  grew  almost  afraid  that  she  was  right. 
"Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother.  Ah,  Herr  Pas 
tor,  the  children  of  these  latter  days "  Adam 

found  the  melancholy  of  the  voice  curiously  lulling 
— "they  have  lost  the  ideals  that  my  generation  held 
high." 

The  pastor  did  not  stop  to  realize  that  it  was  a 
new  departure  for  him  to  be  defending  the  children 
of  to-day,  but  defended,  and  marveled  afterward. 
"I  have  found  that  this  generation  has  its  ideals 
too,  different  from  ours,  but  true  and  noble." 

The  Baroness  shook  her  head  slowly,  a  mourn 
fully  wistful  smile  upon  her  still  beautiful  lips. 
"Ideas,  Herr  Pastor,"  she  said,  "ideas,  perhaps; 
but  ideals,  never!"  Wherewith  she  departed. 

Adam  took  his  way  homeward,  relieved  as  he 
came  out  of  the  church  to  find  that  Gudrun  and 
Hammerdale  had  not  waited  for  him  at  the  door  as 
he  half  feared  they  might,  for  he  knew  that  he 
was  himself  still  too  much  stirred  up  by  the  events 
of  the  morning  to  face  Gudrun  unconcernedly.  He 
found  Esperanza  in  the  kitchen  humming  Christmas 
songs  to  herself  as  she  made  certain  preliminary 
preparations  for  dinner,  still  an  hour  or  more  off, 
for  service  in  Wenkendorf  was  at  ten  and  Christmas 
dinner  at  Wenkendorf  was  at  three.  The  children 
were  in  his  study,  which  was,  and  for  a  week,  he 
knew,  would  be  the  Christmas  room,  the  little  ones* 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  175 

holy  of  holies ;  and  he  did  not  resent  their  presence, 
for  the  stately  tree,  its  glamour  of  many  lights  slum 
bering  now,  seemed  to  say  that  this  one  week  of 
the  year  they  had  rights  even  over  his  own.  He 
sat  down  and  watched  them  play.  They  were  quiet, 
each  absorbed  in  his  own  occupation.  Adam,  junior, 
was  arraying  his  lead  soldiery  against  an  embroid 
ered  sofa  cushion  which  was  supposed  to  bulwark 
innumerable  hosts  of  the  enemy;  Klarchen  was  loy 
ally  rocking  her  beloved  doll;  and  tiny  Jakob  was 
chuckling  over  the  antics  of  his  red  rubber  elephant 
which,  he  had  discovered,  squeaked  at  command  a 
most  un-elephantine  squeak.  The  thought  came  to 
Adam  that  life  held  hitherto  undreamt  of  possibili 
ties  of  peace. 

And  yet — and  yet — if  it  were  only  any  woman  in 
the  world  except  slovenly  Esperanza  who  was  sing 
ing  those  Christmas  songs  in  the  kitchen! 

The  pastor  went  to  the  table  where  his  gifts  were 
still  outspread,  his  socks,  his  neckties,  his  Manuel 
Alonzos,  and,  with  the  feeling  that  he  was  a  wicked 
sybarite,  took  one  of  the  cigars  and  luxuriously  lit 
it,  slowly  drawing  in  the  smoke  and  slowly  puffing 
it  out.  A  real  cigar,  as  Hammerdale  had  assumed, 
was  a  rare  bird  in  the  parsonage. 

The  pastor  generally  smoked  a  pipe,  a  long,  por 
celain-bowled  pipe  which  he  filled  with  a  brownish 
dust  which  he  called  Knaster.  That  tobacco  did  not 
come  from  Havana.  It  grew  on  fields  nearby  and 
in  the  autumn  was  hung  in  the  sun  on  fences  and 


176  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

racks ;  and  was  very  dry,  indeed,  by  the  time  it  was 
ready  for  the  Herr  Pastor  to  press  into  his  black 
ened  bowl.  The  bowl  was  so  far  away  from  his 
lips  that  he  always  had  to  call  his  wife  when  the 
pipe  went  out,  and  have  her  hold  the  match  while 
he  puff-puff-puffed.  This  was,  of  course,  no  great 
inconvenience  to  him,  so  he  did  not  take  seriously 
Esperanza's  mild  suggestion  during  the  first  weeks 
of  their  marriage  that  he  shorten  the  stem. 

The  pastor's  pipe  had  a  way,  before  one  bowl  of 
Knaster  was  half  burnt  out,  of  turning  his  study 
and  gradually  the  rest  of  the  house  into  something 
amazingly  like  a  volcano  pit.  It  made  Esperanza 
and  the  children  cough,  and  more  than  once,  par 
ticularly  in  winter  when  the  casements  had  to  be 
kept  tight,  had  led  Esperanza  to  ask  her  lord 
humbly  whether  he  would  mind  if  she  and  the  little 
ones  went  to  call  on  the  old  coachman's  wife, 
three  houses  down  the  road.  He  generally  did  mind, 
because  he  was  afraid  the  cold  air  might  hurt 
them. 

To-day  the  pastor,  as  he  studied  the  heavy  gray- 
brown  ash  on  his  cigar,  admitted  to  himself  that 
the  pipe's  enveloping  clouds  had  been  a  bit  trying  at 
times.  The  smoke  of  this  Havana  of  his  curled  and 
hung  gently,  dipping  and  rising  on  imperceptible 
currents.  He  watched  the  strands,  how  they  coiled 
in  and  out  of  other  strands,  sinking  suddenly  here  to 
form  a  ring,  scurrying  suddenly  there  like  a  dis 
persed  army  up  and  away  through  the  upper  smoke- 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  177 

strata  against  the  very  ceiling.  He  felt  for  an  in 
stant  that  he  was  a  very  rich  man,  and  better  than 
his  fellows. 

In  the  kitchen  the  singing  stopped  and  Esperanza 
called  through  the  open  doorway,  "Did  you  sleep 
on  the  sofa  last  night,  Adam?" 

"No,"  he  answered  shortly,  annoyed  at  her  in 
trusion  into  his  smoke-dream,  which  was  all  of  Gud- 
run  and  a  bench  in  the  woods,  and  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  Esperanza.  "I  did  not  sleep 
last  night." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed.     "Weren't  you  tired?" 

"Yes,  I  was  very  tired,"  he  answered  patiently. 
"But  I  had  my  sermon  to  write." 

"I  am  so  sorry  I  did  not  hear  it.  It  was  beautiful, 
of  course." 

Adam  did  not  like  to  have  that  sermon  referred 
to.  "No,"  he  snapped.  "It  was  very  ugly." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Adam?"  she  asked,  ap 
pearing  at  the  door.  "How  could  it  be — ugly?" 

"I  cannot  explain.     You  would  not  understand." 

"I  am  sure  I  would  understand,  Adam,"  she  re 
plied,  looking  up  at  him  with  the  large  innocence 
of  her  blue  eyes.  "May  I  read  it?" 

Such  interest  in  his  discourses  was  something 
new,  and  Adam  mistrusted  it,  believing  she  was 
merely  trying  to  make  up  for  her  former  indifference. 
"You  needn't,"  he  said. 

"But  I  should  like  to  very  much,"  she  answered 
meekly. 


178  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

"Are  you  merely  trying  to  please  me,  or  are  you 
really  interested?" 

"Oh,  Adam,  you  know  I  am  interested,"  she  cried. 

"Good,"  he  answered,  and  gave  her  the  sermon. 

Puffing  opulently,  he  watched  her  as  she  read, 
watched  her  in  silence  for  a  good  half  hour,  for 
Esperanza  was  a  slow  reader.  She  plowed  man 
fully  through  page  on  page,  choking  her  yawns,  and 
proceeding  with  a  persistence  no  one  would  have 
dreamed  the  little  lady  possessed.  Finally,  how 
ever,  her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  blurry,  for  again 
and  again  she  drew  the  manuscript  close;  her  head 
began  to  look  unstable  on  her  shoulders. 

Adam,  watching  her,  looked  grimmer  and  grim 
mer  as  the  signs  of  boredom  multiplied.  It  was  one 
thing  for  him  to  decry  his  sermon,  it  was  quite  an 
other  for  his  wife  to  express  this  most  fatal  of 
condemnations.  He  rose  from  his  chair,  towered 
above  her  an  instant,  and  when  he  was  certain  that 
she  was  utterly  unaware  of  his  proximity,  was,  in 
a  word,  asleep,  with  awful  ominousness  he  pro 
nounced  her  name:  "Esperanza!" 

She  woke  with  a  start.  "Oh,  Adam!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "What  must  you  think  of  me?  I  don't 
know  why — I — I " 

"You  may  give  it  back  to  me.  You  need  not 
finish  it,"  he  said  coldly. 

"Oh,  Adam,  but  I  want  to.  I  am  sure  I  shall 
like  the  rest." 

"Give  it  to  me,"  he  reiterated.     "I  do  not  want 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  179 

any  more  of  your  criticism.    Will  you  do  as  I  say?" 

She  looked  up  suddenly  into  his  angry  face  with 
her  clear,  candid  eyes.  "Oh,  Adam,"  she  cried, 
"do  you  not  respect  me  at  all?" 

He  laughed  harshly.  "You  child,  you  little  echo  ! 
What  nonsense  is  this?" 

"I  am  going  to  try  to  make  myself  worthy  of 
your  respect,"  she  answered  softly. 

Her  face  had  a  sweet  tenderness  in  its  appeal  that 
gave  him  pause.  There  was  strength  behind  the 
tenderness,  moreover,  in  place  of  the  weakness  he 
had  grown  to  despise.  Esperanza,  too,  something 
in  him  whispered,  Esperanza,  too,  was  struggling 
toward  the  light.  How  queer  women  were. 

"Good,  finish  the  sermon  if  it  will  prevent  a 
scene,"  he  grumbled,  covering  his  retreat  as  well 
as  he  could. 

She  came  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"I  have  not  been  a  good  wife  to  you,  Adam.  I 
think  I  have  been  careless.  But  I  shall  try  to  do 
better.  Then  you  won't  get  angry  and  out  of  pa 
tience  with  me  any  more,  will  you?" 

There  was  such  tender  pleading  in  the  voice,  and 
such  childlike  assurance  in  the  eyes,  that  Adam  was, 
for  a  moment,  unable  to  answer.  "No,  no,  of  course 
not,"  he  said  at  last,  adding,  as  a  final  shaft,  "but 
you  have  much  to  learn." 

"I  know,"  said  Esperanza  humbly.  For  some 
reason  he  did  not  stop  to  analyze,  the  pastor  was 
sorry  that  he  had  fired  that  final  shaft. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IN  WHICH  THE  MELANCHOLY  PERSONAGE  BUCKLES 

ON  HER  BROADSWORD  AND  GOES  TO  BATTLE, 

TO  THE  DISCOMFITURE  OF  EVERYBODY 

GUDRUN  did  not  come  to  the  parsonage  with 
her  Young  Man  (or  without  him,  for  that  matter) 
for  several  days,  and  the  fear  took  root  in  Adam 
that  his  outburst  on  Christmas  morning  might,  after 
all,  have  offended  the  lady  of  his  devotion.  That 
unexpected  piece  of  pastoral  lyricism  was,  indeed, 
one  cause  of  her  nonappearance;  but  not  for  the 
reason  that  Adam's  conscience  proposed.  Her  in 
terview  with  Adam,  after  her  restless  night,  had 
affected  her,  she  found,  more  than  she  had  sup 
posed.  Adam  curiously  haunted  her  thoughts;  and 
she  decided  it  would  be  better  that  she  and  Adam 
take  time  fitly  to  compose  their  minds  before  they 
met  again.  She  wanted,  by  all  means,  to  steer  safely 
clear  of  sentimental  ebullitions,  without  losing  the 
friendship  which  his  unswerving  belief  in  her  told 
her  he  was  capable  of.  She  had  not  had  any  deep 
friendship  in  her  life  until  Hammerdale  had  en 
tered  it;  and  her  friendship  for  Hammerdale  had 

1 80 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  181 

been  invaded  so  soon  by  the  tremulous  fears  and 
gladnesses  of  an  emotion  which,  if  not  more  rare 
nor  more  noble  than  friendship,  was  certainly  dif 
ferent  from  it,  that  she  found  her  mind  for  the  day 
or  two  following  Christmas  almost  as  full  of  Pas 
tor  Adam  as  of  the  man  she  was  planning  to  marry 
in  just  about  two  months  and  a  half.  She  confessed 
that  fact  to  Hammerdale  in  a  half  joking,  half  seri 
ous  way. 

They  were  going  through  the  cow-stables  when 
she  divulged  her  feelings.  The  very  place  where 
this  confidence  was  given  might  have  led  Hammer- 
dale  to  pass  it  off  jocosely,  but,  to  Gudrun's  deep 
content  (she  was  a  little  afraid  of  his  sense  of  hu 
mor),  he  answered  her  almost  solemnly:  "I'm  glad 
you  told  me  that.  I've  been  wondering  how  your 
thinking  machine  was  assaying  the  situation.  It 
isn't  exactly  an  everyday  experience  to  have  a  man 
tell  you  that  you've  led  him  in  the  direction  of  the 
stars.  I  guess  I'd  been  sorry  if  you  hadn't  thought 
about  it  a  good  deal."  They  walked  through  the 
stables  and  out  into  the  steaming  barnyard  before 
he  proceeded.  "Go  on.  I'm  not  jealous.  You 
said  you  loved  me;  and  you  don't  say  anything  un 
less  you're  pretty  sure  it's  true.  So  think  about 
the  dear  old  ogre  all  you  please.  You'll  have  to  be 
thinking  about  me,  more  or  less,  the  rest  of  your 
days — mending  socks  and  so  on — so  I  guess  I 
haven't  any  kick  coming." 

Gudrun  gave  his  arm  a  quick  pressure.     "Silly 


1 82  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

boy,"  she  whispered,  "how  do  you  expect  me  to 
think  of  anything  at  all  when  you  are  so  nice  to  me?" 

In  the  unsettled  state  of  Gudrun's  feelings,  then, 
lay  one  reason  for  her  nonappearance  at  the  par 
sonage.  The  other  reason  was  even  more  potent. 
The  Baroness,  who  had  not  had  a  Christmas  Eve 
celebration  of  her  own  in  the  Lord  knew  how  long, 
was  unexpectedly  and  deeply  offended  that  Gudrun 
should  have  deserted  her  that  one  evening  in  the 
year  to  seek  a  celebration  elsewhere. 

"I  do  not  understand  you  any  more,  my  child," 
she  said  pathetically,  as  Gudrun  brought  her  in 
her  breakfast  after  her  return  from  the  woods 
Christmas  morning.  "You  have  your  engagement 
announcements  printed  before  I  have  given  my  con 
sent  to  your  engagement,  and  without  a  word  you 
go  off  on  Christmas  Eve  and  leave  your  poor  mother 
alone." 

"But,  mother,  dear,"  Gudrun  protested  gently,  "I 
told  you  we  were  going  to  the  parsonage  and  you 
said  we  might,  since  you  were  in  bed  and  did  not 
intend  to  get  up." 

"I  did  get  up  after  all,"  said  the  Baroness,  con 
scious  that  she  was  uttering  a  crushing  rejoinder. 

"We  couldn't  guess  that  you  would,  could  we, 
dear?"  Gudrun  replied  with  no  touch  of  irony. 

"I  spent  the  evening  with  your  father.  We  played 
bezique.  He  played  very  badly.  He  has  no  head 
for  cards." 

A  pang  of  conscience  shot  through  Gudrun.  After 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  183 

all,  she  should  not  have  deserted  her  parents.  The 
picture  of  them,  playing  bezique  for  hour  on  hour 
in  utter  silence,  gave  her  the  creeps. 

"Have  the  announcements  come  from  the  prin 
ter's?"  asked  the  Baroness  after  a  pause.  The 
Baroness  always  liked  to  be  well  informed,  even  con 
cerning  the  things  which  officially  she  ignored. 

"Yes,  mother,"  Gudrun  answered.     "They  have 


come." 


"Let  me  see  them." 

Gudrun  fetched  the  little  package  from  her  bed 
room,  opened  it,  and  silently  handed  one  of  the  broad 
folders  to  her  mother.  The  Baroness  read  it  aloud, 
softly,  but  with  emphasis.  "The  engagement  of 
our  daughter  Gudrun  to  Mr.  James  Hammerdale 
of  Pagoda  and  Leadville,  Colorado,  we  herewith 
have  the  honor  to  announce.  Georg  Baron  von 
Hallern  and  wife,  Clothilde,  nee  Countess  Felse- 
neck."  The  Baroness  paused.  "We?  That  we  is 
untruthful.  I  am  no  party  to  this." 

"Oh,  but  mother,  we  must  announce  it  that  way." 

"You  should  not  announce  it  at  all  unless  you  can 
announce  it  truthfully.  I  am  surprised  at  you,  Gud 
run.  But  go  on  as  you  have  gone.  You  must  live 
your  own  life.  Your  punishment  will  come  and 
then  you  will  think  of  your  poor  mother  whom  you 
disobeyed." 

"Mother,  dear!  How  do  I  know  whether  I  am 
disobeying  or  not?  You  have  not  expressed  yourself 
definitely  either  way.  Just  let  me  talk  to  you  a 


1 84  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

minute  and  give  you  my  point  of  view.  I  love  Jim- 
mie,  and,  if  we  don't  marry  now,  a  whole  year  will 
have  to  go  by,  and " 

"Never  mind,  my  child.  We  will  say  no  more 
about  it." 

uBut  I  want  to  talk  about  it.  I  want  to  show  you 
my  reasons,  my  point  of  view.  I  want  so  much  to 
have  the  announcements  go  with  your  consent." 

"The  matter  is  settled.  You  believe  you  will  be 
happy  in  doing  wrong,  so  what  can  I  say?" 

"But  I'm  not  doing  wrong.    I'm  sure  of  it." 

The  Baroness  shook  her  head,  smiling  with  mourn 
ful  wistfulness.  "We  will  waste  no  more  words. 
Please.  An  aspirin,  Gudrun.  You  have  brought 
back  my  neuralgia." 

Gudrun  fetched  the  aspirin,  and  left  the  room 
with  the  feeling  that  she  had  been  trying  to  charge 
up  a  mountain  of  sawdust.  She  went  to  her  desk  in 
one  of  the  little  reception-rooms  that  adjoined  the 
salon,  took  out  her  address-book  and  started  to  ad 
dress  envelopes. 

Her  father  came  in  at  that  moment,  returning 
from  a  ride.  She  showed  him  the  announcements. 

(<A  la  bonne  heuref"  he  exclaimed.  "My  Queen 
of  Zeeland,  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you.  I  could  not 
have  done  it.  You  should  have  been  the  soldier  and 
I  the  old  maid." 

"But  I  don't  intend  to  be  an  old  maid,"  Gudrun 
protested  laughingly. 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  the  Baron,  smiling  faintly 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  185 

as  he  stroked  her  hair.  "I  did  not  intend  to  be  a 
dried-up  country  squire  either.  Thank  the  Lord 
you  are  not  as  soft  as  the  Major.  If  you  had  my 
porridge  heart  you  would  surely  be  an  old  maid. 
Come,  shall  I  help  you?  Since  I  am  your  open  con 
federate,  I  might  as  well  be  of  some  help." 

They  had  worked  together  for  ten  minutes  when 
Hammerdale  entered.  "Here,  you  young  Hard- 
muth,  King  of  Norway,  come  from  oversea  to  steal 
away  our  Queen  of  Zeeland,"  cried  the  Baron,  who 
was  always  in  bounding  spirits  when  he  was  getting 
the  better  of  his  lady.  "Lend  us  your  trusty  right. 
This  is  emphatically  your  concern,  and  you  shall  not 
be  allowed  to  shirk." 

Jimmie  grinned  a  little  sheepishly  as  he  read  over 
his  own  announcement  on  the  page  opposite  the  mani 
festo  of  the  Baron  and  Baroness.  "  'My  engage 
ment  to  Miss  Gudrun,  Baroness  von  Hallern,'  "  he 
read,  translating,  "  'daughter,  and  so  forth — and  of 
his  wife,  Clothilde,  nee  Countess  Felseneck' — say ! — 
T  have  the  honor  herewith  to  announce.'  James 
Hammerdale,  Duke  of  Leadville  and  Grand  Mogul 
of  Pagoda.'  This  is  immense.  Couldn't  sound  more 
serious  if  it  was  a  last  will  and  testament.  I  pro 
phesy  this  makes  a  hit  in  Colorado." 

The  Baron  laughed  heartily.  "Custom,  custom, 
we  are  fettered  to  it." 

"Rather  good  thing  within  limits,  too.  Custom,  I 
mean.  It  discourages  manslaughter." 

"Quite  true,"   answered  the   Baron,   more   seri- 


1 86  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

ously.  "But  custom  commits  its  own  subtle  murder. 
Look  at  me — a  dead  man.  In  your  country  I  should 
be  a  bandit,  a  cowboy,  a  politician,  a  live  man  of 
some  sort,  certainly  not  a  country  gentleman,  penned 
up  a  thousand  leagues  from  Buxtehude.  Custom 
is  the  Garde  du  Corps  of  law.  It  is  the  last  and 
staunchest  bulwark  against  rebellion." 

Gudrun  laid  down  her  pen.  "I  think  I'll  let  you 
two  continue  your  exchange  of  undeniable  truths 
by  yourselves.  It's  almost  time  for  church."  She 
rose  and  started  for  her  room,  turning  at  the  door 
way  and  looking  back  at  them  with  a  whimsically 
wistful  smile.  "I  wish  you  people  would  talk  of 
more  cheerful  things,"  she  said.  "I  warn  you  that 
rebellion  as  a  topic  of  conversation  these  days  is 
taboo." 

Both  Hammerdale  and  the  Baron  looked  up 
sharply,  and  Hammerdale  half  rose.  But  Gudrun 
was  already  gone. 

The  Baron  was  wrong  about  Gudrun's  soldierly 
qualities,  or  else  she  was  too  raw  a  recruit  to  be 
other  than  fearful  under  fire.  Her  first  resistance 
to  the  Baroness's  subtle  artillery  had  certainly  ended 
in  moral,  if  not  actual,  defeat  for  herself.  She 
had  inwardly  admitted  her  own  weakness,  which 
no  good  soldier  should  do  in  the  midst  of  a  battle. 
And  as  she  hurriedly  dressed  for  church  she  was 
miserably  aware  of  the  fact  that  she  had  run  from 
the  enemy. 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  187 

The  Baroness,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  a  sol 
dier  worth  the  Baron  and  Gudrun  put  together;  for 
she  could  not  only  shoot  and  thrust,  charge  and  ex 
ecute  flank  movements  in  her  own  inimitable  way,  she 
could  plan  a  campaign.  She  had,  in  fact,  laid  the 
outlines  of  one  before  her  interview  with  Gudrun, 
Hammerdale  and  the  Baron  two  nights  previous, 
was  half  over.  This  she  had  perfected  the  day  be 
fore,  lying  comfortably  in  her  bed,  waited  on  by  two 
maids ;  celebrating  its  completion  by  suddenly  rising, 
dressing  and  not  pleasantly  surprising  the  Baron  as 
he  was  proceeding  to  the  supper-table.  The  thing 
was  that  the  plan  began  with  the  Baron. 

Military  authorities  would  have  called  the  Baron 
ess  a  Fabian.  Her  motto  was:  "Cut  off  supplies, 
harass  incessantly,  do  everything  but  fight."  In 
other  words,  wait — wait — and  wait.  The  Baroness 
was  almost  divinely  patient.  Her  moves,  when  she 
made  any,  were  always  such  as  would  prevent  a  con 
flict,  would  preserve  the  status  quo.  She  was  the  per 
fect  conservative;  there  was  something  divine  to 
her  in  things  as  they  were.  She,  therefore,  opened 
the  action  with  the  Baron  by  the  simple  means  of 
a  Spanish  omelet,  the  like  of  which  he  had  eaten 
for  the  first  time  on  their  honeymoon  in  Madrid 
some  eight  and  twenty  years  ago.  She  trusted  it 
to  wake  memories,  and  it  did.  The  Baron  did  not 
go  off  into  any  sentimental  maunderings — at  least, 
they  were  not  audible — for  the  tradition  of  silence, 
when  silence  was  possible,  was  of  too  many  years' 


1 88  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

standing  to  be  completely  swept  aside  by  a  Spanish 
omelet.  All  he  said  was:  "I  suppose  Madrid  has 
changed,  too,  in  twenty-eight  years."  But  the  Baron 
ess  felt  that  the  omelet  had  not  been  cooked  in  vain. 

The  game  of  bezique,  to  which  the  Baroness  had 
referred  in  her  interview  with  Gudrun,  was  a  sec 
ond  move  in  the  subtle  campaign.  The  Baroness 
had  not  played  bezique  in  years.  She  had  put  aside 
cards  when  she  put  aside  colors  in  her  dress  and 
other  things  which  her  husband  liked,  and  acquired 
the  little  lace  cap,  which  he  detested  since  it  told 
him  he  was  growing  old.  The  Baron  was  delighted 
with  the  idea  of  bezique  and  laid  aside  his  Furst 
Billow  with  alacrity  when  the  Baroness  proposed 
it.  "You  don't  know  how  much  pleasure  you  are  giv 
ing  me,  Clothilde,"  he  exclaimed  at  the  end  of  one 
of  the  hands.  "I  am  glad,  Georg,"  she  answered 
sedately.  The  Baroness  beat  her  husband,  which 
gave  her  a  deep  satisfaction  which  she  did  not  re 
veal.  She  enjoyed  her  evening  as  she  had  not  en 
joyed  an  evening  with  her  husband  in  years.  It  is 
worthy  of  remark,  however,  that  she  would  have 
joined  Shadrach  and  his  friends  in  the  fiery  furnace 
before  she  would  have  confessed  it  even  to  herself. 

The  Baroness  was  well  satisfied  with  her  first 
day's  campaign.  The  Baron  was  visibly  mellowed. 
There  was  a  certain  glow  in  his  cold  courtesy,  this 
Christmas  morning,  like  Alpengluhen  on  a  glacier. 
Rebel  Number  One,  soft-hearted  lover  that  he  was, 
was  coming  to  terms. 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  189 

The  Baroness,  as  has  been  chronicled,  turned  her 
batteries  next  on  Pastor  Samuels.  She  could  obvi 
ously  not  combat  that  gentleman  with  Spanish  om 
elets  and  bezique;  but  she  was  too  good  a  strategist 
not  to  realize  that  different  conditions  demand  dif 
ferent  tactics.  She  appealed  to  Adam  in  his  role 
as  the  community's  guardian  of  things  spiritual. 
Gudrun  was  transgressing  the  biblical  injunction — 
the  pastor  must  take  her  in  hand.  Adam's  attitude 
rather  amazed  her.  It  lacked  its  customary  dog 
matism.  It  gave  her,  moreover,  no  immediate  en 
couragement  that  the  pastor  had  any  intention  of 
lecturing  her  daughter.  Obviously,  Gudrun  had 
made  a  firm  ally  these  two  days  of  inexplicable  in 
timacy  with  the  plebeian  underworld.  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  do  about  that.  Gudrun  must  go 
no  more  to  the  parsonage. 

The  Baroness  was  too  wise  to  command,  and  far 
too  wise  to  make  any  disparaging  remarks  concern 
ing  Gudrun's  new  friends.  She  even  went  so  far  as 
to  praise  the  pastor's  sermon  during  the  stately 
Christmas  dinner  that  afternoon,  gently  chiding 
Gudrun  for  her  difficulty  in  keeping  awake;  and  to 
speak  kindly  of  Esperanza  and  the  children.  But 
she  carefully  filled  Gudrun's  time  so  absolutely  that 
Gudrun  had  no  opportunity  to  seek  the  friendly  par 
sonage.  The  first  day  this  fitted  into  Gudrun's  own 
plans,  the  second  day  less,  the  third  it  began  to  be 
irksome.  But  the  matter  was  so  carefully  engi 
neered  by  the  Baroness  that  Gudrun,  who  was  not 


i9o  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

clever  at  detecting  plots,  especially  when  they  were 
directed  against  herself,  never  suspected  that  there 
were  hidden  strings.  On  the  contrary,  she  trans 
lated  her  mother's  evident  desire  to  have  her  con 
stantly  by  her  side  into  a  sign  of  surrender.  And 
with  a  lighter  heart  she  took  up  again  the  addressing 
of  the  envelopes. 

Jimmie  Hammerdale  was  the  opponent,  the 
Baroness  realized,  who  was  obviously  most  to  be 
feared;  and  him  she  did  not  quite  know  how  to  at 
tack.  He  was  fortified  with  a  kind  of  armor  she 
was  unused  to.  His  life,  his  character,  his  whole 
point  of  view  were  things  foreign  to  her.  The 
Baron  was  an  open  book  to  her,  printed  in  clear 
Gothic;  Hammerdale,  on  the  other  hand,  was  as  an 
Alaskan  totem  pole.  She  approached  her  manipula 
tions  of  him  without  definite  plans,  trusting  to  luck. 

It  was  toward  evening,  three  days  after  Christ 
mas,  that  she  invited  Gudrun  and  Hammerdale  to 
her  sitting-room  for  afternoon  coffee;  sending  Gud 
run  on  a  wild  goose  chase  to  the  garret  and  the 
kitchen  as  soon  as  the  material  part  of  the  enter 
tainment  was  disposed  of.  The  subterfuge  was 
rather  obvious — the  Baroness  was  clumsy  at  battle 
in  the  open — and  Hammerdale,  pleased  rather  than 
otherwise  at  the  prospect  of  an  exchange  of  ideas 
with  his  amazing  hostess,  sat  back  and  waited  for 
the  firing  to  begin.  The  Baroness  was,  however,  in 
no  haste  to  commence,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  they 
studied  each  other,  the  Baroness  vague-eyed  and  sad, 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  191 

Hammerdale  keen,  piercing,  with  a  thoughtful  smile 
hammering  at  the  wicket,  wanting  to  get  out.  Ham 
merdale  did  not  mind  the  silence,  for,  obviously, 
the  responsibility  of  it  did  not  rest  upon  him;  and 
the  Baroness  was  goodly  to  look  upon,  and  worthy 
of  more  than  the  brief  moment's  attention.  There 
was  a  large  dignity  about  her  face,  heightened  by 
that  delicious  coronet  on  her  hair,  the  cap  of  lace 
and  ribbons ;  and  so  composed  were  the  features  that 
no  one  would  have  suspected  that  the  dignity  was 
more  a  matter  of  physical  habit,  inbred  through  the 
centuries,  than  a  spiritual  quality.  He  tried  to  study 
motives  in  that  face  and  found  it  a  fascinating,  il 
lusive  game,  for  a  mist  seemed  to  hang  over  every 
thing  and  truth  was  hard  to  find.  He  wondered, 
after  consideration,  whether  the  finding  would  be 
worth  the  labor  of  the  search.  He  was  a  man  who 
liked  people  according  to  their  sincerity  rather  than 
their  intellectuality,  finding  the  insincere  man  the 
only  insufferable  bore,  since  he  played  the  game  with 
loaded  dice.  The  Baroness,  he  decided,  was  a  good 
deal  of  a  bore.  That  lady,  however,  found  her  cool 
and  calm-eyed  critic  not  at  all  uninteresting.  She 
was  not  used  to  his  type  of  face,  she  disliked  clean 
shaven  faces  anyway;  they  seemed  effeminate,  lack 
ing  the  bristling  masculinity  of  the  mustache.  But 
the  rather  round  face,  bronzed  by  the  sun,  was  not 
bad  as  clean-shaven  faces  went.  It  was  not  at  all 
effeminate.  The  Baroness  even  wished  with  a  sigh 
that  she  were  seventeen  again. 


192  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

Just  as  the  silence  was  beginning  to  be  uncom 
fortable,  the  Baroness  spoke.  "You  may  smoke  if 
you  wish,"  she  said  sweetly.  She  liked  to  have  men 
smoke.  Somehow,  it  was  the  thing  for  a  real  man 
to  do — a  man  to  be  a  man  must  smoke  and  drink 
and  accept  whatever  pretty  lips  offered  themselves 
to  him — that  was  tradition. 

Hammerdale  thanked  her  and  answered  that  he 
would  rather  not. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  robbing  yourself  because 
you  are  in  my  room,"  she  said.  "You  are  very 
courteous.  I  am  ignorant  of  your  country.  I  thought 
you  were  all  barbarians,  particularly  in  the  West." 

This  piece  of  obvious  flattery  was  not  lost  on 
Hammerdale.  "Oh,  we're  barbarians,  East  and 
West.  I  am  from  New  England  originally.  You 
see  the  barbarian  was  so  strong  in  me  that  I  had 
to  make  for  the  wilds." 

"I  do  not  understand  that,"  answered  the  Baron 
ess,  honestly  bewildered. 

"Other  people  have  had  difficulty  in  understand 
ing,"  said  Hammerdale  slowly,  "even  on  my  side 
of  the  water." 

There  was  a  note  in  his  voice  that  suggested  to 
the  Baroness  her  next  query:  "You  have  parents 
living?" 

Jimmie  looked  up ;  and  it  occurred  to  the  Baron 
ess  that  these  eyes,  gazing  thoughtfully  into  hers, 
were  the  eyes  of  a  lonely  man.  "My  mother  is 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  193 

still  living,"  he  said  quickly,  as  if  to  get  the  words 
out  and  done  with. 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  Baroness,  like  an  exhausted 
swimmer  who  suddenly  feels  the  bottom  under  his 
feet.  "And  she  is  living  with  you?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  his  face  clouding.  "My 
mother  lives  in  Massachusetts.  She  does  not  care 
for  the  West." 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  Baroness  again.  "How 
very  hard  that  must  be  for  her."  She  nodded  her 
head  feelingly,  and  the  smile  vanished  from  her 
lips,  leaving  only  the  melancholy. 

Hammerdale  began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  "It  is 
hard  for  us  both,"  he  said  in  defense. 

"Of  course,  one  cannot  lay  out  the  paths  of  other 
people's  lives,"  she  went  on.  "But,  since  your  mother 
cannot  live  with  you,  I  should  think  that  as  long  as 
you  have  her  you  would  live  with  her." 

"It's  a  bit  difficult  to  explain  an  unnatural  situa 
tion  like  this,"  he  replied,  choosing  his  words  care 
fully.  "But  there  are  differences  between  the  East 
and  the  West  that  are  deeper  than  differences  of 
climate  and  altitude.  Differences  in  attitude  toward 
life.  My  mother  and  I  place  value  on  widely  di 
vergent  things.  In  many  cases  she  abhors  what  I 
swear  by.  And  so  on." 

"So  you  must  leave  your  poor  old  mother  in  her 
loneliness  for  the  sake  of  a  point  of  view?"  quoth 
the  Baroness  sadly.  "Forgive  me.  But  you  are  like 
the  rest  of  your  generation." 


194  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

Hammerdale  found  himself  thinking  that  the 
Baroness  was  a  rather  intrusive  person;  but  the  pic 
ture  she  drew  of  his  mother  twisted  his  compressed 
lips  upward  into  a  slow  grin.  "Pardon  me,  Baron 
ess,"  he  exclaimed.  "But,  really,  you  should  see  my 
good  mother.  Lonely !  She  is  president  of  half  the 
societies  for  the  preservation  of  antedeluvian  relics 
in  America,  and  the  beacon  of  New  Bedford  social 
life.  She  doesn't  tango  because  she's  conservative, 
but  she  Bostons  like  a  girl." 

"She  dances?" 

"Why,  yes.  She's  only  fifty-odd.  Why  not?" 
There  was  a  hint  of  irony  in  his  tones  which  the 
Baroness  chose  to  ignore. 

"So?  So?"  said  the  Baroness  meditatively. 
"Your  mothers  are  different  in  America.  You  have 
not  the  same  feeling  toward  your  mothers  that  chil 
dren  have  here.  That  is  why  you  find  it  so  easy 
to  disregard  Gudrun's  mother." 

Hammerdale  looked  at  her  quietly  and  steadily 
for  half  a  minute.  Then  he  spoke.  "Baroness,  I 
have  suspected  that  you  were  coming  to  something 
like  that.  I  have  a  great  feeling  about  mothers, 
more,  possibly,  than  people  have  whose  mothers 
have  been  more  successful  than  mine.  You  think, 
of  course,  that  I  have  been  influencing  Gudrun 
against  you?" 

"I  did  not  say  that,"  declared  the  Baroness  dep- 
recatingly. 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  195 

"I  understand,"  Hammerdale  went  on,  "but  didn't 
you  mean  it?" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Hammerdale,"  she  cried,  horrified 
at  his  bluntness.  "You  must  not  put  meanings  into 
my  words  that  are  not  there." 

"Shall  we  say,"  he  asked  as  patiently  as  he  could, 
"that  you  implied  it?" 

"My  daughter  is  very  dear  to  me,"  murmured  the 
Baroness  irrelevantly. 

Hammerdale  swore  softly  to  himself,  but  he  spoke 
with  all  the  courtesy  of  one  who  knows  that  he  is 
arguing  against  a  heart  as  well  as  a  brain.  "I  wish 
to  be  absolutely  frank  with  you.  I  did  influence 
Gudrun  in  opposing  you,  and  I  intend  to  bend  all  my 
efforts  to  strengthen  her  in  the  position  she  has 
taken." 

"Mr.  Hammerdale!"  gasped  the  Baroness,  quiv 
ering  with  amazement  at  his  candor. 

"Pardon  me  if  I  continue.  I  feel  that  her  po 
sition  in  regard  to  you  is  largely  the  same  as  mine 
in  reference  to  my  mother.  It  is  a  matter  of  clash 
ing  temperaments." 

"Oh,  but  you  are  so  absolutely  mistaken,"  she 
cried,  as  though  he  had  uttered  the  most  patent  of 
absurdities.  "Clash?  There  is  not  the  suspicion  of 
it.  We  love  each  other  so — we  are  like  sisters — it 
is  the  rarest  kind  of  relationship — there  is  never  a 
ripple.  Clash!  I  am  afraid  you  are  speaking  of 
something  you  know  nothing  about." 

Hammerdale  let  the  Baroness's  eloquence  glide 


196  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

off  him  like  hail  from  an  elephant's  hide.  uAs  I 
was  saying,"  he  continued  calmly,  to  the  lady's  evi 
dent  perturbation,  for  she  was  not  used  to  having 
her  sentiments  ignored,  "it  is  a  matter  of  clashing 
temperaments.  It  is  one  of  the  things  that  have 
to  be  faced  squarely.  Gudrun  will  never  be  happy, 
I'm  afraid,  if  she  stays  here.  I  believe  she  will  be 
happy  in  Colorado.  That  isn't  all  vanity,  either.  It 
is  the  result  of  observation." 

"Of  course,  you  have  a  perfect  right  to  your 
opinion,"  said  the  Baroness  rising,  and  smiling  at 
him  as  a  wounded  saint  might  smile  at  her  tormen 
tors.  "But  you  are  young.  I  must  remember  that, 
and  not  feel  too  deeply  hurt  by  your  unkind  out 
spokenness.  You  do  not  understand." 

Hammerdale  arose,  too,  amazed  at  the  Baroness's 
sudden  haste  to  terminate  the  discussion.  "I  am 
sorry  if  I  hurt  you.  I  said  nothing  that  I  do  not 
sincerely  believe." 

"We  will  say  no  more  about  it.  But  you  will  ex 
cuse  me  now?  The  shock  has  given  me  a  headache." 

It  was  that  last  word  that  impelled  Hammerdale 
not  to  respect  the  Baroness's  desire.  He  remem 
bered  another  headache  plea  that  first  evening.  Life 
was  too  short,  he  decided,  to  allow  him  to  respect  all 
the  Baroness's  attacks  of  neuralgia. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said  deferentially.  "Would  you 
mind  letting  me  stay  another  minute  or  two?" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Hammerdale — you  understand. 
To-morrow?" 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  197 

A  stubborn  streak  asserted  itself  in  Hammerdale. 
"You  don't  mind,  do  you?"  he  asked  with  the  most 
courteous  of  smiles,  "if  we  make  it  to-day?" 

But  the  Baroness  did  not  intend  to  let  matters 
come  to  a  crisis  if  she  could  help  it.  The  inter 
view  had,  because  of  Hammerdale's  inexcusable  can 
dor,  already  taken  an  entirely  different  direction 
from  the  one  she  had  planned  that  it  should 
take.  Her  idea  had  been  to  lull  Hammerdale  as 
she  was  lulling  the  others,  to  flatter  or  otherwise 
hypnotize  him  to  quiescence.  She  could  not  afford 
a  crisis,  for  crises  brought  open  conflict;  and  her 
power  lay  in  guerilla  warfare,  or  leisurely  campaigns 
of  waiting. 

"Surely  you  will  not  overtax  an  old  woman,  Mr. 
Hammerdale?"  said  the  Baroness.  Jimmie  was  al 
most  persuaded  by  the  musical  quality  of  her  sad 
voice  and  the  exquisite  English  she  spoke;  but  not 
quite. 

Hammerdale  smiled  to  himself  at  the  impudent 
crudeness  of  the  flattery  that  suggested  itself  to  him; 
then  he  uttered  it.  "It  has  never  occurred  to 
me,  Baroness,  that  I  was  talking  with  an  old 


woman." 


She  glanced  up  at  him  surprised.  Then,  with  a 
glance  that  was  not  melancholy,  for  once,  but  ac 
tually  tender,  she  sank  back  into  her  chair  again. 
Something  in  the  back  of  Hammerdale's  being 
shouted  an  hilarious  shout;  but  the  look  that  he 
gave  in  exchange  was  formal  and  grave. 


198  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

"Thank  you,  Baroness,"  he  said.  "All  I  wanted 
to  do  was  to  suggest  that  we  come  to  a  clear  un 
derstanding  now  of  the  situation  as  regards  Gudrun 
and  myself  in  order  to  avoid  future  misunderstand 
ings.  As  you  know,  I  have  amply  satisfied  the  Baron 
concerning  my  financial  and  social  status.  He  ap 
pears  pleased  with  our  engagement.  As  for  Gud 
run,  well,  Gudrun  seems  willing  to  take  a  chance." 

"You  speak  so  lightly  of  serious  things,"  inter 
rupted  the  Baroness  plaintively. 

"That  is  a  habit  of  speech  rather  than  of  thought," 
Hammerdale  assured  her.  "Now,  what  I  am  anx 
ious  for  is  a  definite  statement  from  you.  Your — 
believe  me,  I  speak  with  the  greatest  respect — your 
unwillingness  to  express  your  verdict  thus  far  is  ob 
viously  wearing  on  Gudrun.  In  short,  won't  you 
give  us  your  consent?" 

"You  have  taken  me  at  a  disadvantage,  Mr.  Ham 
merdale,"  the  Baroness  replied  feebly.  "I  am  sure 
I  am  not  well.  I  cannot  discuss  such  momentous 
questions  when  I  am  in  this  state." 

"I  am  extremely  sorry  you  are  ill,"  he  answered, 
so  charmingly  that  no  one  would  ever  have  guessed 
that  he  was  muttering  "Damned  old  fraud"  to  him 
self.  "It  is  largely  for  your  sake  I  am  speaking.  I 
believe  you  will  feel  happier  later  knowing  that  Gud 
run  has  gone  from  under  your  roof  with  your  full 
consent.  For,  of  course,  you  understand,  whether 
you  consent  or  not — I  assure  you  I  speak  with  all 
reverence — Gudrun  is  going  to  be  my  wife." 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  199 

The  Baroness  forgot  her  ailments  for  an  instant 
as  she  stared  at  Hammerdale,  her  big  round  cow's- 
eyes  like  saucers  in  her  head,  saucers  rimmed  with 
blue.  Then  she  wiped  a  tear  from  her  cheek,  a  real 
tear,  and  sank  back  into  herself  as  though  she  were 
collapsed  by  a  blow.  "My  poor  child,"  she  whis 
pered,  "my  poor  child." 

Jimmie  watched  her  unmoved.  "My  dear  Baron 
ess,  I  am  not  coercing  Gudrun." 

"Ah,  you  say  that,"  murmured  the  Baroness,  "but 
it  is  not  true.  You  are  subtly  coercing  her,  by  your 
very  presence  you  are  coercing  her.  I  pity  my  child 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  for  she  will  awake 
to  the  truth,  she  will  feel  bitter  pangs,  knowing  that 
she  has  gone  without  her  mother's  consent.  But 
she  will  be  far  away,  and  no  remorse  will  help  her 
then.  Possibly  I  may  be  dead.  One  cannot  tell. 
Grief,  grief — yes,  sometimes  it  kills,  though  it  is 
not  often  so  merciful."  The  tears  were  running  down 
her  cheeks. 

The  muscles  of  Hammerdale's  face  tightened. 
"Baroness,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  so  firm  that 
the  Baroness  forgot  for  the  moment  to  weep,  look 
ing  up  at  him  expectantly,  "I  am  afraid  you  will 
think  me  rude,  perhaps  even  brutal.  In  that  case 
I  should  be  sorry.  But  I  believe  that  what  you  have 
been  saying  is  pure  unreasoning  sentimentality.  I 
do  not  expect  you  to  agree  with  me,  but  I  shall  go 
ahead  as  though  you  did." 


200  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

"My  poor  child,  my  poor  child,"  murmured  the 
Baroness,  her  chin  sunk  on  her  breast. 

Gudrun,  bone  of  this  contention,  entered  sud 
denly.  On  the  landing  outside  she  had  heard  Ham- 
merdale's  last  words  and  they  apprized  her  clearly 
enough  of  the  situation  to  convince  her  of  its  serious 
ness.  "Oh,  what  have  you  two  been  doing?"  she 
cried. 

"I  have  been  urging  your  mother  to  give  her  con 
sent  to  our  engagement,"  Hammerdale  answered 
cheerfully.  "But  I'm  sorry  to  say  she  won't  com 
mit  herself — either  way." 

The  Baroness  reached  out  her  hand  feebly  and 
grasped  Gudrun's.  "My  child,  do  not  be  rash,  do 
not  let  yourself  be  hypnotized  by  a  stronger  per 
sonality  than  your  own  into  taking  a  misstep.  When 
he  tries  to  argue  with  you  shut  your  ears.  Do  not 
let  him  coerce  you." 

"Why,  mother,  how  absurd,"  Gudrun  cried.  "He 
is  not  coercing  me." 

"Ah,  my  child,"  answered  the  Baroness,  patting 
her  hand  as  she  would  a  baby's.  "You  are  young. 
You  do  not  understand  the  world.  Such  things  are 
subtle.  They  are  not  on  the  surface." 

Her  mother's  habit  of  treating  her  like  a  child 
of  twelve  always  started  Gudrun's  blood  to  sim 
mering.  It  did  so  now.  "Surely,  mother,"  she 
cried,  "I  am  old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself.  I 
have  a  will  of  my  own,  moreover,  that  even  Jimmie 
here  might  find  trouble  in  coercing.  Eh,  man?" 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  201 

Jimmie  grinned.  The  whole  situation  seemed,  in 
his  mind,  to  be  veering  constantly  between  tragedy 
and  comic  opera.  In  the  comic  opera  mood,  not 
expecting  to  be  taken  in  the  least  seriously,  he  re 
marked  gaily:  "If  I'm  such  a  baleful  influence  I 
suppose  I  might  disappear  for  parts  unknown  for 
a  week  or  a  month.  Coercion  would  be  difficult 
under  those  circumstances. " 

Gudrun  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Silly 
idiot,"  she  said.  "Don't  talk  such  nonsense." 

"I  think,"  said  the  Baroness  slowly  from  the 
depths  of  her  chair,  "I  think  Mr.  Hammerdale's 
plan  is  a  very  good  one.  It  will  give — " 

"But  it's  a  joke,  mother!" 

"A  joke!  You  are  mistaken,  child.  One  does 
not  joke  about  such  serious  matters.  As  I  was  say 
ing,  it  will  give  us  all  a  chance  to  absorb  these  new 
thoughts,  these  new  emotions  that  have  come  upon 
us  with  such  cruel  force.  It  will  give  us  all  a  much- 
needed  rest.  You  too,  my  dear."  The  Baroness 
sighed.  Hammerdale,  deciding  that  the  play  was 
definitely  comic  opera  now,  stroked  his  chin  with 
appreciative  amusement. 

"But,  mother,"  Gudrun  went  on,  "it's  all  non 
sense.  Jimmie's  going  to  stay  right  here.  What 
does  he  want  to  trot  over  Europe  for?  Besides,  he 
might  get  run  over." 

"My  dear,  you  talk  of  such  things?  And  yet 
you  want  me  to  believe  that  you  love  him.  I  think 
it  is  advisable  in  every  way  that  Mr.  Hammerdale 


202  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

should  go  on  a  month's  vacation.  You  will  forgive 
an  all  too  doting  mother,  Mr.  Hammerdale?" 

"I  am  your  guest,  Baroness,"  answered  Hammer- 
dale,  wondering  vaguely  whether  they  would  all  be 
getting  up  in  a  minute  to  sing  a  topical  song.  It 
was  all  so  obviously  comic  opera.  But  he  spoke 
seriously.  "Naturally,  being  your  guest,  I  shall  fall 
in  with  whatever  plans  you  make  for  my  going  and 
coming." 

"No,  no!"  Gudrun  cried.  "This  is  perfectly  ab 
surd.  "Let's  joke  about  something  else." 

"My  child,  I  am  quite  serious." 

"Mother!" 

"Trust  me,  my  Gudrun." 

"But  it  is  so  needless — this  separation." 

"My  child,  you  have  been  very  stubborn,"  mur 
mured  the  Baroness,  most  gentle  in  her  lulling  mel 
ancholy.  "You  have  hurt  me  more  than  I  can  say. 
But  I  will  not  speak  of  it.  I  will  hide  it  in  my  heart 
where  I  have  hid  so  much,  and  no  one  shall  ever 
suspect  that  it  is  there.  No  one.  But  this  thing 
you  can  do  for  me,  this  one  request,  perhaps  my 
last,  this  you  can  grant.  Or  is  your  love  too  weak?" 

"Mother,  it  is  not  a  question  of  love,"  Gudrun 
exclaimed,  "but  of  common  sense." 

"Ah,  you  are  like  the  rest  of  your  generation. 
Love  is  nothing.  Common  sense  is  all." 

"You  are  twisting  my  words.  Of  course  I  love 
you  and  want  to  do  what  you  wish,  but  this  is  so 
quixotic " 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  203 

The  Baroness  was  weeping  and  her  voice  was  very 
feeble  and  faraway  when  she  spoke.  "My  Gudrun, 
lost  to  me — lost  to  me " 

"Mother,  how  absurd!" 

"Gudrun,  the  aspirin." 

Hammerdale  went — for  a  month — at  ten  o'clock 
next  morning,  and  the  Baroness  looked,  if  possible, 
more  melancholy  than  ever  as  she  watched  the  sleigh 
go  jingling  down  the  drive  to  the  highway.  But 
Gudrun  had  her  revenge,  for  she  kissed  the  Unknown 
Stranger  on  the  railroad  platform  in  sight  of  half 
the  gossips  of  Hunenfeld. 


CHAPTER   XII 

IN  WHICH  THE  OGRE   BARELY   ESCAPES  DEVOURING 

HIS  OWN  CHILD  AND  BECOMES  PROPERLY 

HUMBLE  FORTHWITH 

ADAM  and  Gudrun  came  upon  each  other  unex 
pectedly  the  afternoon  following  Hammerdale's 
sudden  departure.  Gudrun  was  coming  from  the 
bedside  of  the  lachrymose  old  lady  who  had  broken 
her  leg  Christmas  Eve,  and  was  still  examining 
her  life  for  dark  misdeeds  to  justify  such  Jehovan 
punishment;  and  met  Adam  on  the  doorstep.  She 
was  able  to  greet  him  quite  unconcernedly,  for  the 
events  leading  up  to  Jimmie's  going  had  filled  her 
mind  so  completely  that  Adam  and  his  love-outburst 
had  been  crowded  quite  out  of  her  thoughts.  The 
pastor  had  forgotten  nothing  of  that  morning's  ex 
perience;  and,  disregarding  the  probability  that  the 
matter  was  closer  to  him  than  to  her,  imagined 
that  she  must  feel  it  all  as  vividly  yet  as  he.  Where 
fore,  he  flushed  deeply  and  for  a  half  minute  sought 
in  vain  for  words.  Once  more  Gudrun  came  to  the 
rescue. 

204 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  205 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Herr  Pastor,"  she  ex 
claimed,  flushing  not  at  all  and  giving  him  her  hand 
with  unaffected  naturalness.  "You  must  give  my 
love  to  Esperanza.  Does  she  think  we  are  terrible 
not  to  have  come  to  see  her  since  Christmas?"  She 
did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but  went  on  quickly.  "I 
am  spending  all  my  days  with  my  mother.  She 
seems  to  be  quite  frail,  and  likes  to  have  me  about." 

Adam  nodded  his  head,  trying  to  reconcile  Gud- 
run's  words  with  the  resolute  and  by  no  means  frail 
spirit  the  Baroness  had  displayed  in  church  Christ 
mas  morning.  "So?"  he  said.  "I  am  glad." 

"I  think  she  suffers  from  the  thought  of  my  going 
so  far,"  Gudrun  continued.  "It  must  be  very  hard 
when  you  have  brought  up  children,  working  and 
suffering  for  them,  to  have  them  go  away  with  scarce 
ly  a  qualm." 

"That  is  one  of  the  penalties  we  pay  for  joy," 
answered  Adam  with  a  bulldog  expression  on  his 
face  Gudrun  had  not  seen  there  before,  "that  we 
must  see  it  go,  and  send  our  blessings  after  it." 

"I  had  to  send  my  blessings  after  my  Jimmie- 
man."  Gudrun  remarked  ruefully,  "this  morning  at 
ten.  Mother  insisted  that  we  must  have  a  further 
period  of  inner  examination.  It's  a  little  hard,  but 
mother  wanted  it  so  much  that  it  seemed  pigheaded 
and  selfish  not  to  yield." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Adam,  mentally  dovetailing  the 
Baroness's  remark  in  church  with  the  departure  of 
the  excellent  Hammerdale.  "Is  it  so?" 


206  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

"And  Esperanza  is  well?"  asked  Gudrun,  as  she 
turned  homeward. 

Adam  was  still  thinking  of  the  Baroness.  "Es 
peranza?"  he  asked,  rather  stupidly,  as  though  he 
could  not  recall  who  was  meant.  "Oh,  yes,  she  is  the 
same  as  always." 

"Just  the  same?"  Gudrun  asked  meaningly,  as  they 
shook  hands. 

The  pastor  flushed  once  more  as  the  remembrance 
of  the  scene  in  the  woods  flooded  his  consciousness 
in  a  new  wave.  "You  do  not  understand,"  was  all 
he  could  say. 

Adam,  having  consoled  the  penitent  lady  of  the 
broken  leg  as  well  as  he  could,  took  a  roundabout 
way  home  to  the  parsonage.  For  the  children  were 
still  ruling  undisturbed  by  day  in  his  study,  and  he 
had  contracted  the  habit  since  Christmas  of  tramping 
the  highways  and  byways,  making  a  thinking-room 
of  the  great  out-of-doors.  His  mind  was  crowded 
with  countless  new  impressions,  new  ideas,  new  feel 
ings,  new  resolves ;  and  he  despaired  of  coordinating 
them.  He  had  always  divided  life  formerly  into 
just  so  many  pigeon-holes,  thrusting  people  and 
things  into  their  respective  boxes  without  misgiv 
ings.  Gudrun  went  into  the  box  marked  Aspira 
tions,  Esperanza  into  the  box  marked  Disagreeable 
Necessities,  the  Baroness  into  the  box  marked  Piety, 
and  so  on.  But  he  realized  that  the  pigeon-hole  sys 
tem  had  somehow  gone  wrong;  it  no  longer  worked. 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  207 

Gudrun  was  more  than  an  Aspiration,  Esperanza 
was  doing  curious  things  that  no  one  would  expect  of 
a  Disagreeable  Necessity,  and  the  Baroness  was  pos 
sibly  things  beside  pious,  but  what  those  things  were 
he  did  not  attempt  to  put  into  words.  The  thought 
came  to  him  like  an  inspiration  that  life  was  not 
simple,  but  bewilderingly  complex,  and  he  wondered 
whether  anyone  had  ever  made  that  discovery  be 
fore. 

As  he  walked  along  the  highway  toward  Hiinen- 
feld,  over  snow  packed  firm  as  a  boulevard  in  the 
runner-tracks  the  sleighs  had  made,  he  tried  grad 
ually  to  straighten  out  the  tangled  threads.  Two 
things  were  clear  to  him;  one,  that  he  could  never 
go  on  leading  the  slipshod  life  he  had  led  the  past 
five  years,  and  escape  the  bludgeon  of  an  awakened 
conscience;  the  other,  that  he  must  be  safely  on  the 
new  road  before  he  could  dare,  in  the  sight  of  God 
and  his  own  soul,  to  aspire  to  do  the  great  office 
for  Gudrun  and  Hammerdale  on  the  Twelfth  of 
March.  He  recalled  the  naively  frank  words  he 
had  spoken  as  they  were  saying  good-bye  on  Christ 
mas  Eve:  uYou  have  given  me  less  than  three 
months  to  make  myself  worthy."  He  grew  hot  at 
the  thought  of  his  boldness,  but  this  misdeed  was  so 
slight  in  comparison  with  his  rush  of  emotion  the  fol 
lowing  morning  that  it  seemed  almost  conventional ; 
moreover,  he  was  glad  he  had  said  it,  for  it  gave 
him  a  center  about  which  to  array  the  jumbled  ideas 
and  emotions  that  were  bewildering  him.  Speaking 


208  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

the  words  had  also  in  a  sense  pledged  him  to  fulfill 
the  promise  he  had  already  made  mentally.  His 
pride  did  good  service  at  this  point.  He  would  not 
have  Gudrun  think  him  a  vain  talker.  He  was  no 
longer  vaguely  beating  about  the  darkness.  He 
had  his  eye  on  a  definite  aim.  He  must  make  him 
self  worthy.  Possibly  the  confusion  in  his  soul  might 
gradually  give  place  to  order  if  he  kept  his  eyes 
unswervingly  on  the  Twelfth  of  March.  He  knew 
that  if  he  were  not  to  appear  an  utter  Pharisee  to 
himself  when  the  hour  came;  and  if,  henceforth, 
Gudrun' s  marriage  was  to  be  as  holy  a  memory  to 
him  as  her  Confirmation,  he  must  strive  for  purifi 
cation  as  he  loyally  strove  then.  Grimly  he  took  cog 
nizance  of  ignoble  years  following  that  Confirma 
tion,  ignoble  not  in  the  things  done  but  rather  in 
the  things  left  undone.  Dray-horse  years  should  not 
have  followed  the  calm,  pure  beauty  of  that  Palm 
Sunday  ten  years  back.  He  should  not  have  allowed 
himself  to  sink  into  the  common  rut  of  dull-witted, 
heavy-footed  humanity. 

He  would  draw  himself  out  of  it  now.  Something 
was  wrong  with  his  life.  He  did  not  know  what  it 
was.  But  henceforth  he  would  be  less  irritable  with 
Esperanza  and  the  children,  he  would  serve  his  par 
ish  less  grudgingly,  he  would  study  again.  Es 
peranza?  For  the  second  time  that  morning  the 
memory  of  his  interview  with  Gudrun  by  the  friendly 
bench  rushed  in  upon  him.  "Esperanza" — that  had 
been  her  answer  to  the  story  of  his  love,  and  she  had 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  209 

spoken  the  name  again  to-day.  Esperanza.  As  he 
recalled  her  words  that  morning,  that  one  word 
seemed  to  stand  out  above  all  others — Esperanza. 
The  meeting  suddenly  took  on  new  significance,  a 
significance  which,  he  dimly  realized,  he  considered 
slightly  unwelcome.  The  general  impression  he  had 
carried  about  with  him  was  that  Gudrun  had  scolded 
him  for  his  sentimentality  and  ended  by  calling  him 
her  friend;  the  interview  had,  in  fact,  ended  fairly 
triumphantly  for  him.  Her  last  words  and  his  re 
joinder  he  had  considered  in  the  light  of  an  unfor 
tunate  but  irrelevant  epilogue.  But  Gudrun's  itera 
tion  of  that  name  gradually  altered  the  picture.  Es 
peranza — Esperanza — Esperanza — she  seemed  to 
say.  "If  you  have  ever  loved  me — Esperanza — if 
you  are  not  merely  a  selfish  sentimentalist — Es 
peranza.  "  He  heard  the  name  echoing  down  a  hun 
dred  corridors — -"Esperanza !"  "You  do  not  under 
stand,"  he  had  said,  meaning  that  he  who  had  loved 
Gudrun  could  never  love  anyone  so  insignificant  as 
his  slavish  little  wife.  And  yet  he  seemed  to  hear 
Gudrun  repeating  in  answer:  "Esperanza — Esperan 
za."  He  felt  suddenly  depressed.  It  would  mean 
such  an  effort  to  keep  his  temper  with  Esperanza. 
Scaling  the  heavens  seemed  at  that  moment  vastly 
easier. 

But  he  remembered  his  resolutions.  He  would  set 
his  house  in  order — his  inner  house;  and  he  could 
no  more  ignore  Esperanza  there  than  he  could  ignore 


2io  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

her  in  the  parsonage.  Well,  he  said  to  himself  with 
a  sigh,  he  would  do  his  best. 

He  turned  homeward,  and  noble  resolves  seemed 
easy  of  execution  as  he  marched  through  the  white 
fields,  invigorated  by  the  sense  of  a  new  beginning 
that  had  been  on  him  in  a  greater  or  less  degree 
ever  since  Gudrun  and  Hammerdale's  first  visit,  but 
never  more  strongly  than  now.  If  he  could  only 
order  his  life  to  get  the  best  out  of  it!  Life  might 
be  full  and  rich  even  for  him,  he  thought,  if  he 
could  only  grasp  and  hold  the  gifts  it  offered. 

He  had  not  been  inside  the  parsonage  five  min 
utes  before  the  perfidious  imps  that  exist  for  no 
other  purpose  than  to  quarry  paving-stones  for  the 
broad  streets  of  Hell  began  to  apply  their  minute 
drills  to  his  good  intentions.  The  usual  air  of  con 
fusion  hung  about  the  rooms.  The  Christmas  room, 
his  study,  was  confusion  worse  confounded,  and  the 
tree  with  its  look  of  calm  stateliness  seemed  more 
unearthly  than  ever  amid  such  mundane  disorder. 
The  two  elder  children  were  cross  and  constantly 
on  the  edge  of  tears :  on  inquiry  he  found  they  had 
that  morning  done  away  with  a  tart  of  marchpane, 
that  should  have  lasted  a  month,  and  were  suffering 
the  consequences.  This  was  bad  enough,  but  what 
was  worse,  namely  that  Esperanza,  attending  them, 
had  let  the  corned  beef  and  horseradish  merrily 
boil  themselves  into  shreds,  he  did  not  discover  until, 
when  the  hour  for  the  midday  meal  struck,  Es 
peranza  presented  a  long  face,  but  no  dinner. 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  211 

Adam,  remembering  his  resolutions,  held  himself 
in  hand.  "So?"  he  remarked,  merely  raising  his 
eyebrows. 

Esperanza  waited  for  the  storm  which  did  not 
come,  looking  up  at  him  with  some  concern  when  he 
was  not  watching  to  see  if  he  possibly  were  unwell. 
Having  satisfied  herself  on  this  score,  she  served 
what  was  left  of  the  beef  to  serve,  adding  some 
rather  ghastly  blue  potatoes  and  bread.  Adam  ate 
his  meal  without  comment  of  any  kind;  but  not  with 
out  inner  struggles.  He  felt  heroically  virtuous, 
and,  possibly,  showed  this  feeling;  for  Esperanza 
bustled  about  more  restlessly  even  than  usual,  help 
less  before  his  silent  disapproval. 

"I  met  Fraulein  Gudrun  to-day,"  he  said  as  he 
rose. 

"Oh,"  Esperanza  cried.  "Did  she  say  when  she 
was  coming  again?" 

"No.  Her  mother  needs  her  at  the  Manor- 
house." 

"I  wish  she  would  come.  There  are  so  many 
things  I  want  to  ask  her." 

"So  ?"  said  Adam.    "What,  for  instance  ?" 

Esperanza  was  flustered  and  did  not  answer,  try 
ing,  as  she  cleared  away  the  dinner  dishes,  to  pretend 
that  she  had  not  heard  the  question. 

"What,  for  instance?"  Adam  repeated. 

She  looked  up  a  little  frightened.  "Oh,  about 
housekeeping,"  she  answered  vaguely.  "She  does 
things  so  quickly." 


212  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

"And  what  else?" 

"Nothing  else — except " 

"Well,  out  with  it." 

"I  want  her  to  tell  me  how  women — how  women 
become  worthy  of  respect." 

Adam  felt  something  glimmer  and  glow  an  in 
stant  somewhere  in  his  being;  but  his  principal  feel 
ing,  as  he  retreated  to  his  study  a  moment  later,  was 
one  of  annoyance  at  the  obstreperousness  of  Dis 
agreeable  Necessities  who  refused  to  stay  pigeon 
holed. 

The  little  imps  who  hammer  day  and  night  at 
cracks  in  men's  good  resolutions  were  not  repelled 
definitely  by  their  first  rebuff.  As  the  day  waned 
toward  dusk  they  came  in  force,  bringing  their 
friends,  for,  as  the  pangs  of  hunger  began  to  assert 
themselves  in  Adam,  his  resentment,  quenched  tem 
porarily  by  Esperanza's  simple-hearted  words,  re- 
awoke,  rose  and  buckled  on  armor  and  broadsword. 
Esperanza  had  put  the  children  to  bed,  but  their 
room  was  directly  above  the  study  and  their  inter 
mittent  wails  and  whines  gradually  developed  into 
a  form  of  refined  torture  that  made  his  toes  and 
fingers  wriggle  restlessly  with  pent-up  irritation.  He 
had  taken  up  his  Greek  Testament  for  the  first  time 
in  months  with  the  intention  of  carrying  out  another 
of  his  good  resolutions;  but  after  an  hour  of  honest 
endeavor  he  thrust  Testament  and  forbearance  from 
him  with  one  fling  of  his  hand  and  strode  upstairs. 

The  children  heard  his  step  on  the  stair  and,  in- 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  213 

terpreting  its  sternness,  set  up  anew  their  querulous 
laments. 

"Quiet,  quiet,  children,"  counseled  Esperanza. 
"They  are  not  feeling  well,  Adam." 

The  pastor  tried  vigorous  persuasion,  and,  when 
these  elicited  only  fresh  outbursts,  threats.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  lost  his  temper  and  laid  first  Adam, 
junior,  and  then  little  Klarchen  over  his  knee  and 
administered  classic  discipline. 

Little  Adam  bawled  lustily  and  ran  into  a  corner 
nursing  the  injured  parts.  But  Klarchen  merely 
whimpered  as  she  sank  back  on  the  bed  and  then 
lay  still.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  her  face  ashen,  her 
body  rigid.  Esperanza  leapt  toward  her  with  a 
shriek.  "Adam,  what  have  you  done?"  she  cried. 
"The  child  is " 

Adam  stood  white  and  trembling  over  the  bed, 
as  Esperanza  shook  the  little  body,  crying  heart 
rending  cries.  He  stood  like  a  rock,  incapable  of 
motion,  helpless  as  though  he  were  in  a  nightmare. 
Esperanza  splashed  water  desperately  on  the  child's 
face  and  rubbed  her  hands  and  her  legs,  moaning  in 
wild,  despairing  tones  that  made  Adam's  blood  run 
cold.  He  gained  control  of  his  body  enough,  at 
last,  to  take  a  step  forward,  offering,  with  a  gesture, 
to  help.  But  Esperanza  waved  him  peremptorily 
away,  and  he  stood  as  before  by  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
trying  to  pray,  but  incapable  of  framing  a  prayer. 
He  could  only  close  his  eyes  to  the  terrible  sight 
and  mutter  "God,  God,  God!"  over  and  over  again. 


214  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

At  last  the  child  slowly  came  out  of  her  convul 
sion,  opened  her  eyes  and  breathed  deeply.  Then, 
holding  her  mother's  hand,  she  went  to  sleep. 

Adam  felt  as  if  he,  too,  had  been  unconscious 
and  had  come  back  to  life.  "Esperanza  !"  he  cried  in 
a  voice  wherein  tenderness  mingled  with  compassion 
and  the  cry  for  forgiveness.  "Esperanza!" 

But  Esperanza,  her  hand  still  holding  the  hand  of 
the  sleeping  child,  turned  on  him  like  a  tigress.  "Go 
away!  Adam,  go  away!  I  hate  you!" 

He  took  a  step  toward  her.  "Esperanza  I"  he 
pleaded  piteously. 

But  she  cried  fiercely,  "Don't  come  near  me !"  and 
shrank  from  his  approach. 

Without  another  word  he  crossed  the  room  and 
descended  the  stairs.  The  lamp  in  his  study  was 
still  burning.  He  saw  the  friendly  tree  benignly 
keeping  watch,  he  saw  the  scattered  toys  of  the  chil 
dren,  the  railroad  train,  the  lead  soldiers,  the  doll, 
the  red  rubber  elephant  that  squeaked.  Everything 
was  the  same  as  it  had  been  when  he  went  upstairs 
a  few  hours  ago.  The  cuckoo-clock  in  the  kitchen 
harshly  announced  six  o'clock;  then  he  remembered 
that  it  had  been  a  quarter  to  six  when  he  went  up 
stairs.  Fifteen  minutes !  The  fact  dazed  him — that 
he  should  have  plunged  to  the  heart  of  Hell;  and 
returned;  all  in  fifteen  minutes! 

He  sank  down  on  a  chair,  listening  for  sounds 
from  above.  Little  Adam,  hushed  by  the  terror  of 
his  mother's  voice,  had  evidently  gone  to  sleep,  for 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  215 

Adam  heard  only  Esperanza  as  she  hummed  little 
songs  that  he  knew  Klarchen  loved.  After  a  while 
the  humming  ceased,  and  he  heard  the  scraping  of 
chairs  along  the  floor  as  Esperanza  straightened  out 
the  room.  Then  he  heard  her  step  in  the  upper 
hall  and  steeled  himself  for  the  ordeal  of  facing  her; 
but  she  did  not  come  down.  He  heard  her  enter 
the  room  that  was  her  bedroom  and  his,  and  heard 
immediately  after  the  creaking  of  bedsprings.  Es 
peranza  had  lain  down. 

For  a  long  while  Adam  did  not  move.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  could  see  nothing  clearly  but  the 
white  little  body  of  the  child,  rigid  upon  the  bed, 
and  hear  nothing  clearly  but  Esperanza's  shriek  and 
finally  her  terrible  condemnation.  He  said  to  him 
self  again  and  again  that  but  for  God's  grace  he 
might  have  murdered  his  own  child.  It  seemed  to 
him  impossible  that  he,  who  was  not  by  nature  a 
wicked  man,  should  have  come  so  close  to  committing 
a  terrible  crime.  Something  was  wrong  in  him. 
There  was  some  ghastly  flaw  somewhere.  He  strode 
up  and  down  the  floor  of  the  study,  up  and  down  for 
hours.  How  contemptible  he  evidently  was  since 
even  Esperanza  despised  him.  He  felt  a  quick  pang 
of  loneliness.  Esperanza's  rejection  of  him  seemed 
to  set  him  outside  the  pale.  There  had  been  such 
superhuman  anger  in  her  eyes.  If  he  could  seem  so 
worthless  to  little  Esperanza,  what  a  poor  thing  he 
must  be. 

Slowly  the  thought  rose  to  his  consciousness  that 


216  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

the  heart  that  could  hate  so  terribly  for  an  offense 
against  her  child  must  have  wonderful  treasures  of 
love.  The  idea  stung  him  to  new  life,  and  brought 
the  blood  again  to  his  face  and  hands.  Esperanza 
had  thrust  him  from  her  and  he  seemed  to  stand 
far  away  from  her  now,  and  beneath  her.  That 
moment  a  new,  ringing  hope  entered  Adam's  life. 

He  sat  until  midnight  in  his  study,  forgetting  that 
he  was  hungry.  Then  he  took  the  lamp  and  as 
cended  the  stairs.  Esperanza  was  lying  across  the 
bed,  still  dressed.  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
penitently. 

Then,  not  to  disturb  her,  he  took  the  lamp  again 
and  redescended  to  his  study;  and  on  the  uncom 
fortable,  five-foot  sofa  he  ungrumblingly  lay  down 
for  the  night. 

Esperanza  was  preparing  breakfast  when  Adam 
awoke.  She  greeted  him,  as  he  entered  the  dining- 
room,  with  her  habitual,  rather  formal  "Good  morn 
ing,  Adam" ;  but  there  was  a  reserve  in  her  tones 
which  he,  who  was  on  the  lookout,  was  quick  to 
note.  She  spoke  little  as  she  served  him  his  break 
fast,  and  he  scarcely  spoke  at  all.  But  as  she  came 
and  went  he  watched  her  with  an  interest  he  had 
never  felt  before.  She  was  pale  and  tired-looking 
and  there  were  rings  under  the  blue  eyes,  which 
Adam  noticed  for  the  first  time  looked  even  in  weari 
ness  cool  and  clear  as  the  sky  over  a  snowy  hill. 
She  went  about  her  work  in  a  detached  way,  not 
listlessly,  or  dreamily,  as  often  in  the  past,  but  rather 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  217 

as  if  she  were  still  half-prisoned  in  the  ghastly 
nightmare  of  that  eternal  quarter-hour  while  the 
child  hung  between  life  and  death.  His  own  eyes 
were  full  of  penitence  and  pleading  petition  as  they 
followed  her  movements.  But  she  did  not  seek  his 
eyes  nor  offer  any  pardon.  He  wondered  what  she 
was  thinking  about,  marveling  a  little  at  her  con 
trol.  For  she  was  not  sorry  for  her  outburst  against 
him.  Her  placid  coldness  told  him  that.  Her 
anger  then  had  not  been  a  mere  hysterical  paroxysm, 
but  the  first  conscious  utterance  of  a  passion  that 
possibly  had  burned,  unrecognized,  in  her  for  years. 
He  wondered,  gloomily,  whether  she  had  really 
hated  him  all  the  while.  No,  he  was  sure  she  had 
not.  The  idea  was  grotesque  that  little,  simple- 
hearted  Esperanza  should  have  borne  hatred  beneath 
a  cloak  of  meekness.  She  hated  him  only  because  he 
had  lost  his  temper  and  been  unthinkingly,  save 
for  the  grace  of  God  fatally,  cruel  to  their 
Klarchen. 

He  gulped  down  his  breakfast,  but,  even  so,  the 
meal  seemed  to  stretch  out  interminably.  He  felt 
her  reproaches  all  the  more  heavily  because  they 
were  unspoken.  She  was  so  uncannily  quiet  about 
her  work,  so  hushed  in  all  her  movements,  as  though 
the  child  really  had  died.  He  longed  for  the  famil 
iar  sound  of  breaking  crockery  to  reveal  for  a  sec 
ond,  at  least,  the  old  Esperanza.  But  no  plate 
broke.  She  washed  them  all  with  scarcely  a  sound 
save  the  hissing  of  the  boiling  water  in  the  dishpan. 


218  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

At  last  he  rose  and  went  through  the  kitchen 
toward  his  room.  But  at  the  door  he  turned.  uCan 
you  forgive  me,  Esperanza?"  he  asked  in  tones  she 
could  not  help  hearing  were  deeply  penitent. 

She  sank  down  limply  beside  the  table,  bursting 
into  tears.  "Oh,  do  not  ask  me  that!"  she  exclaimed 
through  sobs. 

He  walked  over  to  her  chair  and  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder.  "I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said, 
simply  as  a  child  might  say  it. 

But  she  rose  and  drew  back.  "Don't  talk  to  me 
now!"  she  cried.  "Please!  Leave  me  alone." 

He  went  to  his  desk,  miserably  humble,  and  sat 
with  his  head  in  his  hands,  trying  to  figure  out  what 
was  to  come  of  it  all.  Here  was  a  fine  end  to  his 
high  resolves.  Truly,  the  prospect  of  setting  his 
life  in  order  did  not  look  as  easy  or  as  promising 
as  it  did.  When  he  had  vaguely  set  himself,  yester 
day,  to  cleanse  his  days  he  had  not  guessed  to  what 
depths  it  was  possible  for  him  to  sink.  Since  then 
he  had  been  close  to  what  he  dared  not  name,  and 
he  had  thought  his  sins  cried  finis  at  Irritability !  He 
wondered  whether  Gudrun  would  still  call  him  her 
"true  friend"  if  she  knew  what  Esperanza  knew? 
He  could  not  face  the  thought  of  losing  her,  too,  for 
he  knew  that  the  friendly  intercourse  with  her  since 
that  eventful  meeting  in  the  dusk  when  he  had  found 
her  again  meant  more  to  him  than  ever  the  Golden 
Six  Months  or  the  idealized  memory  of  his  little 
St.  Teresa  had  meant.  It  was  Gudrun,  he  knew, 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  219 

who  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  failure  of  his  soul 
and  pointed  the  way  which  he  must  henceforth  take. 
As  he  glanced  back  over  the  Wonderful  Week  he 
suddenly  saw  milestones,  indicating  phases  of  what 
he  realized  now  had  been  a  steady  development;  a 
new  point  of  view  discovered  here,  an  old  prejudice 
buried  there.  He  marveled  that  he  should  not  have 
understood  before  the  deep  changes  going  on  within 
him.  He  examined  each  new  step  in  his  awakening 
as  he  remembered  it — and  always  he  saw  Gudrun 
beckoning  him  from  step  to  step. 

"There  is  only  one  struggle,  the  struggle  for 
spiritual  growth,'7  he  repeated  to  himself,  "and  none 
of  us  can  fight  it  for  the  others,  but  none  of  us  can 
fight  it  alone."  And  again  he  heard  Gudrun' s  voice 
saying:  "Esperanza." 

At  eleven  o'clock  Gudrun,  with  the  Manor  hunts 
man  at  her  side,  drove  up  in  front  of  the  parsonage 
in  her  jingly  sleigh,  and  pulled  the  jangly  doorbell. 
Adam,  who  had  seen  her  through  the  window, 
opened  the  poor  and  led  her  into  the  study. 

"May  I  go  right  into  the  kitchen?"  Gudrun 
asked.  "I  do  so  want  to  see  Esperanza."  She  went, 
not  waiting  for  an  answer,  and  found  Esperanza 
drying  the  last  of  the  breakfast  dishes. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,"  Esperanza  exclaimed. 
"Please  sit  down.  You  see,  I  am  almost  through." 
There  was  a  note  of  pride  in  her  voice  that  rang 
even  through  the  subdued  tone,  and  she  added: 


220  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

"Perhaps  I  may  learn  to  be  a  housekeeper  some 
day." 

"Why,  you  are  progressing  wonderfully.  Where 
are  the  children?  They  are  well,  aren't  they?" 
Gudrun  saw  Esperanza's  eyes  grow  dim  as  she  tried 
to  appear  busy  by  the  range. 

"They  are  upstairs,"  Esperanza  answered  in  dead 
tones.  "Little  Adam  is  playing  with  the  Baby. 
Klarchen  is  asleep."  Her  voice  was  heavy  and  life 
less,  and  broke  now  and  then  with  a  sob. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Esperanza?"  whispered 
Gudrun,  taking  her  in  her  arms. 

But  Esperanza  did  not  answer.  The  tears  over 
whelmed  her  and  she  lay  against  Gudrun's  breast, 
sobbing  and  gasping  hysterically,  trying  now  and 
again  to  talk  and  breaking  down  more  utterly  after 
each  attempt. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  murmured  Gudrun 
tenderly. 

Adam  heard  the  sobbing  and  opened  the  study 
door.  Gudrun  felt  Esperanza's  body  shrink  away 
as  she  heard  the  step,  thereby  locating,  she  said  to 
herself,  the  evident  cause  of  the  trouble.  She  waved 
Adam  away  with  a  quick  gesture  and  a  second  later 
heard  the  door  close  again,  very  gently. 

Gradually  Esperanza  grew  quiet.  The  outburst 
had  been  salutary,  for  when  she  shyly  lifted  up  her 
eyes  toward  Gudrun  again  her  face  had  lost  its  heavy 
hopeless  look.  "Oh,  you  are  a  good  friend!"  she 
exclaimed,  pressing  Gudrun's  hand.  But  she  did 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  221 

not  offer  to  explain  her  state.  Possibly  she  could 
not  bear  having  others  see  Adam  as  she  had  seen 
him. 

Gudrun  looked  in  at  the  study  on  her  way  out. 
Adam  jumped  up  from  his  chair  as  her  head  ap 
peared  cheerfully  around  the  edge  of  the  door. 
"Take  good  care  of  your  little  lady,'1  she  coun 
seled.  "She  seems  to  have  a  slight  attack  of 


nerves." 


"Yes,"  answered  the  pastor  heavily. 

"I'll  be  in  again  soon,"  Gudrun  went  on,  "but  I 
don't  know  when  it'll  be.  Mother  has  been  won 
derfully  kind.  She  seems  to  want  to  console  me  for 
Jimmie's  absence,  and  speaks  so  sweetly  of  him — 
and  yet — she  clings  to  me  so.  It  does  warm  my 
heart,  but,  well,  it  does  worry  me.  It  makes  break 
ing  away  from  her  just  so  much  harder." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Adam  once  more,  definitely  de 
positing  the  Baroness  in  a  new  pigeon-hole  not 
marked  Piety.  "Is  it  so?" 

"Well,  mother  is  waiting  for  me,"  Gudrun  added 
hastily.  "Good-bye.  Life  is  a  good  deal  of  a 
wilderness,  isn't  it?  And  the  good  things  do  seem 
to  be  so  carefully  stowed  away  behind  forests  of 
thorn  hedges,  like  Sleeping  Beauty's  castle."  She 
turned  to  the  kitchen  door  once  more,  and  called  to 
Esperanza:  "Good-bye,  again!  And  cook  your 
man  here  a  good  dinner.  He  looks  as  though  he 
had  been  saving  souls  all  night  long,  including  his 


222  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

own.     Good-bye,  Herr  Pastor!"  and,  bounding  into 
the  sleigh,  she  was  off. 

Interminable  gray  days  followed.  Esperanza 
showed  no  more  positive  signs  of  her  resentment, 
except  her  reserve,  which  stolidly  rebuffed  the  two 
or  three  more  trials  he  made  to  break  it  down.  She 
went  about  her  work  simply  and  quietly,  learning 
surprisingly  quickly,  Adam  thought,  the  methods 
Gudrun  had  tactfully  suggested  for  her  housekeep 
ing.  She  spoke  to  him  courteously  always,  though 
quite  coldly.  The  child  was  still  unwell  and  he  felt 
the  horror  of  that  ghastly  fifteen  minutes  still  too 
keenly  to  resent  Esperanza's  condemnation.  Once 
or  twice  he  felt  her  eye  upon  him  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  make  him  out.  He  bore  her  critical  glances 
with  some  boiling  of  the  blood,  but  he  resented  her 
criticism  less  than  he  wondered  what  her  judgment 
might  be.  He  suspected  it  was  not  favorable,  for, 
even  after  Klarchen  had  completely  recovered  and 
was  romping  upstairs  and  down  again  with  Adam 
junior,  her  attitude  did  not  change.  Her  first  fierce 
anger  had  cooled,  possibly  vanished  entirely;  but 
her  critical  sense  had  been  enfranchised  and  she 
played  it  relentlessly  up  and  down  and  through 
Adam,  her  husband. 

Onge  only  her  critical  attitude  got  the  better  of 
his  growing  sense  of  the  virtue  of  control.  After  a 
silent  meal,  during  which  he  had  felt  her  eyes  fixed 
first  on  his  hands,  then  on  his  face,  then  on  the  nap- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  223 

kin  about  his  neck,  and  again  on  his  hands,  with  that 
lifeless  look  about  her  mouth  which  intimated  that 
not  heaven  nor  earth  nor  millstones  could  squeeze  a 
word  out  of  her,  Adam  felt  some  check-valve  in  his 
mind  break,  and  anger  rush  through  his  veins. 

He  banged  the  table  quite  in  the  fashion  of  for 
mer  days.  "Esperanza,"  he  exclaimed,  "for  God's 
sake  do  not  sit  there  like  the  dead.  I  am  truly 
doing  my  part.  If  I  did  you  wrong,  I  have  tried 
at  least  to  show  you  that  I  was  sorry.  You  have 
no  right  now  to  play  the  sullen  lady.  We  are 
neither  of  us  saints." 

He  rose,  flinging  his  napkin  on  the  table.  "This 
house  is  becoming  a  terrible  place,"  he  went  on. 
"No  love,  no  tenderness,  no  warmth.  That  we 
should  come  to  this,  Esperanza !" 

But  Esperanza  had  neither  penitence  nor  warmth 
at  that  moment  to  offer  him.  She  looked  up  at  him 
piteously,  and  tears  came.  "I  do  not  know  what  is 
the  matter  with  me,  Adam,"  she  whispered. 

"Am  I  so  wicked  in  your  eyes  that  you  must  stare 
at  me  all  day  long,  cold,  cold  to  the  heart?  I,  too, 
have  had  my  sorrows,  Esperanza,  and  I  have 
fought,  I  tell  you  I  have  fought.  Come,  let  us  be 
through  with  this.  Give  me  your  hand." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  limply.  "I  have  nothing 
against  you  any  more,  Adam,"  she  answered  weakly. 
"And  I  suffer  more  than  you,  I  think,  from  my  own 
coldness.  But  I  cannot  help  it.  Everything  is  dif 
ferent  in  me  from  what  it  used  to  be," 


224  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

"You  must  control  yourself,  child,"  he  said,  not 
ungently.  "You  must  pull  yourself  together." 

She  sighed. 

"Why  do  you  always  sigh  that  way?"  he  cried, 
blowing  up  again.  "Your  sighs  drive  me  crazy." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  so,"  she  answered,  sob 
bing.  "I  am  trying  to  be  good,  but  it  doesn't  seem 
as  if  I  could  be." 

Adam  marched  out  of  the  room,  with  head  burn 
ing.  But  his  anger  cooled  more  quickly  than  for 
merly  and  when  he  sat  down  to  supper  there  was  no 
outward  sign  of  it,  and  within  was  a  little  touch  of 
tender  pity  where  the  anger  had  been. 

And  the  days  crawled  on,  and  Adam  held  his 
tongue  when  he  was  tempted  to  turn  it  loose,  and 
worked,  and  grew  in  strength. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

IN    WHICH    THE    OGRE    FORGETS    HIMSELF    AND    AC 
QUIRES    MERIT 

JANUARY  dragged  on,  and  to  Adam  in  the  study 
and  Esperanza  in  the  kitchen,  leading  their  isolated 
lives,  each  day  seemed  seven.  The  cold  placidity  of 
the  parsonage  was  wearing  on  them  both  far  more 
than  the  turmoil  and  disorder  of  the  past  had  done. 
Even  the  children  seemed  to  feel  that  something 
was  wrong,  for  they  played  listlessly  and  silently; 
and  Esperanza  began  administering  cod  liver  oil. 

The  tables  had  curiously  turned  in  the  house 
hold.  Adam  was  now  the  humble  member.  His 
close  escape  from  a  deed  that  would  have  wrecked 
him  forever  had  had  a  lasting  effect.  He  was 
scarcely  ever  tempted  to  irritability  after  that  one 
fruitless  attempt  at  conciliation;  and,  when  tempted, 
took  good  care  to  control  his  feelings  from  Esper 
anza,  for  he  knew  that  his  peace  of  mind  depended 
on  his  control;  and,  moreover,  that  any  hope  of 
peace  in  the  parsonage  depended  on  his  not  giving 
fresh  offense  to  those  pure,  critical  blue  eyes.  Es 
peranza,  on  the  other  hand,  felt  the  power  she 

225 


226  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

possessed  over  the  new  Adam  and  unconsciously  ex 
ercised  it.  Partly  this  power  came  from  her  recog 
nition  of  Adam's  sense  of  guilt,  partly  from  her 
own  sudden  indifference  to  his  regard,  and,  for  that 
matter,  to  everything  else.  After  the  ghastly  ex 
perience  at  Klarchen's  bedside,  she  had  slowly  come 
to  understand  what  her  life  in  the  parsonage  had 
been.  She  viewed  it  in  the  light  of  the  things 
Gudrun  had  told  them  and  contrasted  Adam's  domi 
neering  violence  with  Hammerdale's  quiet  courtesy 
and  helpfulness  and  respect.  What  a  silly  child  she 
had  been,  she  told  herself,  to  think  that  husbands 
always  ruled  their  wives  with  a  rod  of  iron  and  that, 
come  what  might,  she  must  submit.  She  seemed  ages 
removed  from  the  Esperanza  of  other  years,  and  as 
far  removed  from  the  man  who  had  been  that  fool 
ish  girl's  lord  and  master.  She  regarded  him  as  she 
would  a  stranger,  remarking  to  herself  on  the  hard, 
selfish  lines  about  his  mouth.  And  thinking  of  him 
day  and  night  (in  spite  of  her  indifference),  she  re 
membered  one  incident  after  another  in  which  Adam 
had  shown  himself  petty  and  mean  and  tyrannical. 
She  gathered  them  all  in  and  brooded  over  them; 
and  all  day  long — though  outwardly  gentle  and  calm 
and  almost  meek — without  ever  speaking  of  their 
terrible  quarter-hour  together,  she  held  Adam's 
guilt  over  him  like  a  sword. 

But  Adam  was  not  allowing  his  penitence  to  crush 
him.  His  mind,  in  fact,  did  not  dwell  as  much  on 
his  troubles,  now  that  they  had  become  acute,  as  they 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  227 

had  in  former  days,  when  they  were  little  chronic 
ills,  or,  if  they  seemed  large,  were  for  the  most  part 
imaginary.  It  roamed  no  more,  moreover,  in  a 
dimly  glowing  past  for  its  secret  delights.  There 
was  no  longer  a  potent  little  Saint  Teresa,  or  a  less 
distinct  dream-figure,  to  distract  it  from  the  present. 
These  had  happily  sunk  into  history;  the  living  Gud- 
run  had  effaced  them  quite.  Therein  lay  one  of  the 
notable  results  of  that  memorable  interview  in  the 
woods  on  Christmas  morning.  Gudrun  had,  some 
how,  made  further  glorification  of  this  dream  of  his 
ignoble.  She  had  stamped  it  with  her  emphatic  dis 
approval  when  she  called  him  a  sentimentalist.  The 
word  had  stung,  but  it  had  done  its  work.  She  had 
accomplished  more  even  than  that,  however,  as  she 
would  have  clearly  seen  could  she  have  looked  into 
Adam's  altered  heart.  By  her  gentle  mockery  she 
had  made  even  his  continued  adoration  of  her  a 
thing  to  be  conquered  rather  than  cultivated.  When 
Adam  called  up  her  image  now  it  was  with  a  slight 
feeling  of  guilt.  He  began  to  realize  that  in  dream 
ing  of  her  he  was  doing  a  thing  she  had  told  him 
not  to  do;  it  was,  in  fact,  self-indulgence  and  dis 
loyalty  to  the  one  whose  slightest  unspoken  behest 
it  had  been  his  pride  to  obey.  She  had  said,  "Es- 
peranza,"  and  gradually  "Esperanza"  came  in  his 
mind  to  signify  that  whole  part  of  his  existence 
which,  dreaming  of  Gudrun,  he  had  in  the  past 
neglected. 

So,  in  setting  his  life  in  order,  he  had  begun  to 


228  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

regard  his  pastoral  work  with  a  more  critical  eye 
than  he  had  ever  leveled  at  it  before.  The  result, 
he  frankly  admitted  to  himself,  not  without  con 
science-prickings,  was  disquieting.  His  parish  was 
not  one  wherein  the  God  he  thundered  of  Sunday 
after  Sunday  was  either  greatly  feared  or  greatly 
loved.  It  was  an  average  parish,  which,  he  admit 
ted  with  a  pang,  meant  that  it  was  a  community  in 
which  the  influence  of  church  and  pastor  was  purely 
negligible.  He  might  lock  up  the  white-plastered 
edifice  to-morrow,  and,  save  for  one  or  two  elderly 
ladies  who  would  protest  at  the  interruption  of  a 
habit,  the  men  and  women  of  his  parish  would  not 
miss  out  of  their  lives  the  spiritual  nourishment  it 
had  provided.  Such  a  condition,  he  told  himself 
sternly,  was  a  mockery  of  the  Faith. 

In  the  humble  attitude  of  mind  pastor  Adam  was 
in  he  had  no  difficulty  in  placing  the  blame  for  that 
condition.  Quite  accurately,  he  placed  it  on  his  own 
shoulders.  Wherefore,  on  lonely  walks,  he  examined 
first  his  theology.  He  found  that,  on  the  whole, 
admirably  orthodox.  Somewhat  mollified,  he  ex 
amined  his  parish  work.  That,  too,  did  not  at 
once  dissatisfy  him.  He  had  been  reasonably  con 
scientious.  He  regarded  his  sermons  next.  A  few 
short  weeks  ago  he  should  have  given  himself  a 
rather  good  verdict  on  these,  but  of  late  it  had 
seemed  to  him  that  the  mediaeval  tomfooleries  of 
imps  and  brimstone,  wherewith  he  habitually  shook 
the  stout  old  rafters,  sounded  a  bit  hollow  and  mean- 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  229 

ingless.  His  Christmas  sermon  had,  indeed,  awak 
ened  him  to  a  consciousness  of  how  miserably  he 
could  preach,  at  a  pinch.  That  sermon  lived  taunt 
ingly  in  his  memory.  It  was  so  patent  an  example 
of  manufactured  piety  shot  through  with  noise.  In 
reference  to  his  preaching  he  repeated  the  phrase 
he  had  used  to  himself  before  in  reference  to  his 
whole  existence:  "There  was  not  enough  of  God  in 
it" — too  much  pseudo-learning,  too  much  pseudo- 
piety,  too  much  noise,  but  not  enough  of  God.  He 
wondered  unhappily  whether  that  were  the  trouble, 
likewise,  with  his  parish  work,  which  he  saw  clearly 
now  was  without  importance  to  those  it  pretended 
to  help — there  was  not  enough  of  God  in  it.  He 
admitted  to  himself  that  he  had  carried  it  on  purely 
as  a  matter  of  duty.  There  had  been  no  vital  spark. 

The  effect  of  this  critical  self-examination  was,  at 
first,  intense  depression.  Esperanza,  remote  as  she 
was  in  her  little  world  of  pain,  halfway  between 
earth  and  the  clouds,  noticed  it,  and  pitied  him. 

"Are  you  ill?"  she  asked  solicitously,  feeling  the 
first  faint  thaw  of  spring  about  her  heart. 

Adam  was  warming  his  hands  over  the  kitchen 
fire.  "No,"  he  answered  shortly. 

She  glanced  at  him,  puzzled.  "You  look  dis 
turbed,"  she  said  tentatively. 

He  returned  her  glance,  and  his  eyes,  more  poig 
nantly  sorrowful  than  she  had  ever  seen  them,  belied1 
the  frigid  firmness  of  the  lips.     "I  do  not  ask 
for  your  sympathy,"  he  replied. 


230  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

"Oh,  Adam,"  she  cried,  distressed.  "How  wicked 
I  must  seem  to  you !" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "God  moves  us  in  strange 
ways." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  is  distressing  you?"  she 
persisted. 

"My  life  has  been  wrong,  my  work  has  been  use 
less,"  he  cried  harshly.  "My  home — God,  what  is 
this  that  I  call  my  home?  Why  shouldn't  I  be  dis 
tressed?  Do  me  one  favor,  Esperanza.  Do  not 
rouse  me  up  too  much.  Let  me  be." 

Esperanza  felt  a  cracking  and  breaking  of  the  ice 
about  her  heart;  but  it  held  her  bound  still.  It 
seemed  that  she  could  desire  to  give  sympathy,  but 
sympathy  itself  she  could  not  give.  She  looked  at 
Adam  with  a  pathetic,  helpless  expression  about  her 
mouth,  that  somehow  softened  his  mood. 

"Never  mind,  Esperanza,"  he  said  with  a  note 
of  hopefulness  in  his  voice,  "it  is  not  yet  the  twi 
light  of  the  last  day." 

Adam's  depression  did  not  last  long,  for  a  week 
of  warm,  wet  weather  brought  the  grippe  to  Wen- 
kendorf,  and  to  him  days  on  end  of  ceaseless  visit- 
ings.  He  welcomed  the  opportunity  it  gave  him  to 
forget  his  sense  of  failure  and  vigorously  to  start 
afresh.  He  was  on  his  feet  daily  from  before  dawn 
until  midnight,  covering  an  amazing  amount  of 
ground,  for  his  parish  was  not  confined  to  Wen- 
kendorf  itself,  but  extended  in  a  radius  of  three  or 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  231 

four  miles  beyond.  And  everywhere  was  the  grippe, 
and  everywhere  distress  and  death  and  mourning. 

"You  must  not  overwork,"  said  Gudrun  to  him 
one  day  as  they  met  at  a  bedside  in  the  village.  "I 
must  tell  Esperanza  to  keep  the  reins  on  you.  But 
you  are  doing  wonderful  work." 

He  flushed  with  deep  gratification.  "I  am  strange 
ly  happy  these  days,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  seem  to 
get  tired." 

"Everybody  is  praising  you,"  she  went  on.  "It 
is  right  that  you  should  know." 

He  flushed  again  and  pressed  his  lips  together  and 
blinked,  for,  man  of 'emotions  that  he  was,  the  tears 
had  suddenly  started  in  his  eyes. 

A  cold  wave,  following  the  thaw,  did  not  im 
prove  conditions  in  Wenkendorf  parish.  There  were 
comparatively  few  deaths,  for  they  were  tough  folk 
about  there  who  did  not  easily  die,  but  the  fear  of 
death  was  widespread;  and  this,  Pastor  Adam  found, 
was  the  foe  he  had  most  to  combat.  And  he  had  to 
combat  it  first  in  his  own  heart — there  was  the  rub ; 
for  Adam  was  a  fearful  soul  in  the  matter  of  phys 
ical  ailments.  He  made  much  of  them  always, 
dreaded  their  coming  at  the  first  faint  shadow  of  a 
symptom,  thought,  talked  and  dreamed  of  them, 
occupied  his  thoughts  with  them,  in  fact,  for  the 
time  being,  considerably  more  than  with  his  Maker. 
His  activity  among  the  sick  was,  therefore,  an  even 
greater  moral  victory  than  Gudrun  guessed.  He 
was  aided  by  a  certain  unprecedented  recklessness  in 


232  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

him  which  manifested  itself  in  the  first  few  days  of 
the  epidemic.  He  was  doing  honest  and  effective 
work,  he  knew.  After  all,  was  life  a  season  of  such 
unalloyed  bliss  that  he  need  worry  vastly  to  lose  it? 
He  flung  himself  into  his  efforts  with  greater  vigor 
than  before.  Esperanza  saw  him  scarcely  at  all. 
He  took  his  meals  and  his  sleep  where  he  could.  But 
rumors  reached  her,  and  she  treasured  them. 

The  battle  that  Pastor  Adam  found  he  must  con 
stantly  wage  with  the  fear  of  death  in  the  hearts 
of  his  parishioners  necessitated,  he  discovered  with 
somewhat  of  a  shock,  a  radical  change  in  his  theol 
ogy.  He  had  been  trained  in  a  school  whose  em 
phasis  lay  considerably  more  heavily  on  the  fear 
than  on  the  love  of  God.  Possibly  a  generation  that 
had  imbibed  the  Blood  and  Iron  theory  of  govern 
ment  did  not  find  a  God  who  ruled  by  gentleness  as 
convincing  a  figure  as  a  God  who  ruled  by  force; 
and  possibly  a  government  built  on  force  did  not 
discourage  the  exaltation  of  a  Mosaic  rather  than 
a  Christian  ideal.  With  sudden  power  it  struck 
Adam  that  this  was  the  trouble  with  the  churches  in 
his  country:  they  were  trying  to  make  the  people 
quake  in  their  boots  before  a  wrathful  Deity  instead 
of  setting  their  feet  to  run  in  the  footsteps  of  a 
pitying  God.  Not  wrath,  but  love,  thought  Adam, 
not  fear,  but  hope — there  lay  the  keys — one  to  the 
heart  of  God,  one  to  the  heart  of  man. 

So  Adam  went  about  among  his  sick  and  despond 
ent  parishioners,  bearing  in  his  eyes  not  Jehovah,  but 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  233 

Christ.  It  was  almost  pathetic  to  him  to  see  how 
gratefully  they  accepted  his  new  message,  so  hungry 
they  seemed  for  hope.  They  throve  on  it,  more 
over.  The  new-old  truths  roused  them  from  their 
lethargic  surrender  to  new  vigor.  The  grippe  held 
on  for  a  while  longer,  but  the  fear  of  death,  and 
with  it  death,  vanished  for  the  time  being  from 
Wenkendorf.  And  Adam,  hearing  grateful  voices 
on  every  side,  walked  as  in  a  dream,  wondering  how 
such  praise  should  be  given  to  him  who  had  been, 
only  yesterday  it  seemed,  a  self-indulgent  dreamer 
and  a  tyrant. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

IN   WHICH   FOUR   FRIENDS    FEAR   FOR   THEIR 
CHINAWARE 

THE  Baroness  von  Hallern  found  Gudrun  more 
and  more  necessary  to  her  as  the  first  week  of  Feb 
ruary  sped  by  and  the  second  week  began.  This 
was  no  affectation  on  her  part,  for  she  had  dis 
covered  that  this  girl,  whom  she  had  held  at  a  dis 
tance  in  the  past  because  she  seemed  to  her  aloof 
and  willfully  different  from  the  average  type  she 
would  have  preferred  her  to  be,  was  on  the  whole  a 
rather  companionable  creature.  She  had  seen 
glimpses  in  the  past,  but  had  procrastinated,  for 
reasons  that  seemed  excellent  at  the  time,  endeavor 
ing  to  understand  what  those  glimpses  might  sig 
nify.  She  was  as  far  as  ever  from  comprehending 
the  real  Gudrun,  groping  toward  woman's  estate,  but 
she  found  the  young  lady  who  sewed  upper  and 
nether  garments  for  the  Hottentots  with  her  morn 
ings,  and  read  her  to  sleep  with  devout  discourses 
by  fashionable  preachers  after  dinner,  decidedly 
worth  cultivating.  As  a  special  mark  of  trust  she 
resigned  the  household  completely  into  her  hands, 

234 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  235 

whereby,  be  it  noted,  the  household  as  well  as  the 
Hottentots  benefited.  And  meanwhile  she  became 
more  and  more  convinced  that  somewhere  a  gentle 
man  of  her  own  land  whose  thoughts  by  day  and 
dreams  by  night  were  not  of  dollars  and  dollars 
only,  as  those  of  all  Americans  were,  possibly  even 
a  noble  count  with  all  the  virtues  of  the  departed 
Max,  was  living  and  breathing  for  no  other  pur 
pose  than  some  day  to  find  his  Countess  at  Wenken- 
dorf  Manor.  For  the  Baroness  had  ideals,  even  if 
Gudrun  had  none. 

But  the  living,  breathing  human  being  who  stood 
in  the  way  of  this  nebulous  paragon  of  hers,  Ham- 
merdale  namely,  was  by  no  means  deleted  from  the 
scene  as  yet.  This  even  the  Baroness,  who  never 
admitted  anything  if  she  could  help  it,  reluctantly 
had  to  admit.  But  her  melancholy  took  on  no 
deeper  purple  for  that  reason.  She  was  by  no  means 
discontented  with  the  way  the  campaign  had  gone 
since  Hammerdale  had  been  summarily  shipped  on 
his  travels.  The  Baron,  as  the  result  of  subtle  at 
tacks  on  his  resentment  by  the  pious  Baroness,  was 
soft  as  the  omelets  wherewith  the  Baroness  reawoke 
the  slumbering  memories.  He  was  hors  de  combat, 
and  could  give  Gudrun  neither  support  nor  advice. 
"She  is  your  mother,"  was  all  he  could  say;  and  he 
made  a  helpless  gesture  that  in  itself  was  a  sword 
drawn  in  the  Baroness's  cause. 

And  meanwhile  the  engagement  announcements 
lay,  unsent,  in  Gudrun's  desk.  This  the  Baroness 


236  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

knew  (for  she  had  looked),  and  it  seemed  an  ex 
cellent  sign.  What  was  less  pleasing  were  the  in 
quiring  letters  which  came  from  Hunenfeld  concern 
ing  the  young  man  to  whom  Gudrun  von  Hallern 
was  rumored  to  be  engaged.  Gudrun  remembered 
the  affectionate  adieu  on  the  railway  platform, 
looked  as  surprised  as  she  thought  the  situation  de 
manded,  and  volunteered  no  information. 

The  passing  of  the  weeks  of  Hammerdale's  ab 
sence  did  not  serve  to  dispel  the  apprehension  that 
had  come  upon  her  at  his  departure.  She  dreamed 
of  railroad  wrecks,  of  beautiful  young  men  dying  in 
lonely  hostelries,  and  even  by  day  the  vague  fear 
took  possession  of  her  that  she  had  thrown  away  her 
chance  of  happiness  in  yielding  to  her  mother,  and 
that  Hammerdale  would  never  return.  It  was  a 
morbid  fear,  but  when  now  and  then  it  dwindled  and 
seemed  to  go  out,  it  did  so  only  to  yield  place  to  a 
fear  no  less  terrible  that  Hammerdale  would  return 
to  claim  her  and  that  at  last  she  would  be  unable  to 
go  with  him.  The  ties  that  bound  her  to  her  mother 
were  drawing  closer.  She  had  told  herself  in  the 
past  that  she  knew  her  mother  like  a  book,  that  she 
could  stretch  out  her  finger  and  say,  This  is  vanity, 
this  is  play-acting,  this  is  sentimental  tosh.  But  she 
was  now  less  certain  of  her  judgment.  A  new  ele 
ment  was  there,  it  seemed,  something  that  was  not 
pious  fraud,  something  that  was  real  and  sincere; 
and  the  remembrance  of  her  condemnation  in  the 
past  only  served  to  make  her  more  loyal  now. 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  237 

The  epidemic  of  grippe  saved  her  nerves  as  it 
saved  Adam's ;  and  for  the  time  being  it  put  a  spoke 
in  the  Baroness's  carefully  greased  wheel.  For 
Gudrun  might  give  up  her  own  pleasures  to  stitch  red 
flannel  for  the  Hottentots,  but  she  would  not  sac 
rifice  (though  her  mother  pleaded)  the  needs  of  the 
stricken  families.  She  saw  something  of  Esperanza 
and  even  of  Adam  in  the  course  of  her  village  work; 
and  the  companionship  thrilled  her  strangely.  She 
had  a  sense  that  they  were  three  struggling  spirits, 
fighting  up  out  of  the  dark;  and  felt  heartened,  long 
ing  for  the  fourth. 

At  last  January  was  done  with,  and  one  clear,  cold 
afternoon  Jimmie  Hammerdale  returned.  Gudrun 
had  planned  to  meet  him  at  Hiinenfeld,  but,  hearing 
of  it,  the  Baroness  suddenly  developed  so  realistic 
an  attack  of  the  grippe  that  Gudrun  had  to  send  the 
coachman  instead,  not  daring  to  leave  her  mother, 
who  was  blaming  her  illness  on  Gudrun's  charitable 
excursions  to  the  sickbeds  of  the  parish.  She  waited 
through  the  interminable  hours  of  that  afternoon 
with  miserable  forebodings.  What  would  Jimmie 
think  when  he  looked  for  her  at  Hiinenfeld  and  did 
not  find  her? 

Hammerdale  came  at  length,  looking  fagged.  He 
admitted  that  his  travels  had  not  been  a  success. 
He  had  been  at  St.  Moritz  for  the  winter  sports,  at 
Monte  Carlo  for  the  excitement,  at  Naples  for  the 
view;  and  found  them  all  overrated  and  tiresome. 
"I'm  terribly  glad  to  be  back,"  he  said,  wandering 


238  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

about  Gudrun's  little  sitting-room  with  a  restless 
ness  Gudrun  had  not  seen  in  him  before.  "Hon 
estly,  it  was  the  devil  of  a  trip.  I  hope  it's  made 
your  mother  feel  better  about  our  engagement." 

Gudrun  was  silent,  wondering  how  best  to  ex 
press  her  mother's  attitude.  "Still  on  the  fence?" 
he  asked  quickly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  reluctantly.  "She  is  not  op 
posing,  and  she  knows  I  am  getting  my  clothes  ready 
for  a  March  wedding.  But — well — you  know  how 
she  is " 

"Um,"  remarked  Hammerdale.  In  his  peregri 
nations  he  stopped  before  her  open  desk,  picking  up 
a  framed  snapshot  of  the  Baroness,  and  studying  it. 
He  set  it  down  without  a  word,  but  as  he  did  so  he 
caught  sight  of  a  package  that  had  a  familiar  look. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  glancing  up  at  her  keenly.  "You 
haven't  sent  them,  have  you?" 

"Sent  what,  Jimmie?"  she  asked,  rising  and  join 
ing  him. 

"Oh,  just  those  funny  things  telling  folks  about 
our  engagement,"  he  answered  with  a  futile  attempt 
at  nonchalance. 

"Oh,  Jimmie !"  she  cried.  "I  just  couldn't.  I  sup 
pose  you  think  I  am  a  weak  thing,  but — mother  has 
been  so  loving.  She's  different,  Jimmie,  she's  genu 
inely  kind " 

Hammerdale  inclined  his  head  gravely,  and  Gud 
run  saw  with  a  pang  that  he  looked  haggard  and 
pale.  "Does  that  mean " 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  239 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  divining  what  he  was  about 
to  say.  "It  only  means  that  we  must  wait  a  little 
while  longer,  not  with  our  marriage,  just  with  the 
sending  of  these  things.  It  is  her  way,  Jimmie.  She 
won't  be  pressed.  She  has  to  take  her  own  time. 
Just  you  see,  one  fine  day,  she'll  pop  out  and  shower 
us  with  blessings.  Oh,  don't  be  afraid,  Jimmie." 

There  was  something  in  Gudrun's  voice  that  spoke 
otherwise  than  her  words ;  and  Hammerdale  was  not 
reassured.  But  he  kissed  her  gently  and  whispered, 
"Who's  afraid?" 

With  Hammerdale's  return  the  friendly  inter 
course  with  the  parsonage  recommenced,  in  spite  of 
all  the  Baroness  could  do  to  crowd  Gudrun's  hours; 
but  something  had  gone  out  of  it,  or  something  had 
crept  in.  None  knew  exactly  what  it  was,  but  the 
harmony  of  that  Christmas  eve  did  not  return.  The 
trouble,  of  course,  was  that  each  and  every  heart  of 
the  four  was  struggling  under  a  weight  of  its  own. 
Adam,  not  without  honor  in  the  parish,  did  not  feel 
like  an  important  prophet  in  his  home;  and  even 
Hammerdale,  whose  habitual  cheerfulness  and  ap 
parent  imperturbability  had  sometimes  been  a  source 
of  annoyance  and  always  a  source  of  wonder  to 
Adam,  showed  signs  of  anxiety.  For  one  thing, 
when  Adam  and  he  were  alone,  he  smoked  faster  and 
less  luxuriously  than  formerly,  and  more  as  a  man 
who  works  while  he  smokes.  But  he  was  by  no 
means  so  absorbed  in  his  own  cares  not  to  see,  even 


240  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

before  Gudrun  suggested  it,  that  a  decided  change 
had  taken  place  in  the  relative  positions  of  Adam 
and  Esperanza.  There  was  no  fire  and  thunder 
about  Adam  at  all,  no  slavish  meekness  about  Esper 
anza.  But  neither  was  there  warmth  or  any  out 
ward  sign  of  amity. 

Adam  and  Hammerdale  were  sitting  in  the  study 
together,  conversing  in  silence  as  usual. 

uSorry,  old  man.  You  seem  to  lack  the  old  ginger. 
Had  a  scrap  with  the  missus  ?"  Thus  spoke  Ham- 
merdale's  underself  to  the  pastor's  underself,  as  the 
conscious  Hammerdale,  not  without  amusement,  was 
gratefully  clipping  off  the  end  of  one  of  Adam's 
Manuel  Alonzos. 

"She  hates  me.  She  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
me,"  answered  the  underself  of  Pastor  Adam. 

"You're  probably  in  the  wrong,  then,  parson. 
Men  always  are,  you  know,  nine  times  out  of  ten." 

"What  can  I  do?"  The  query  seemed  to  carry  a 
cry  of  despair  along  the  invisible  wires;  but  Ham 
merdale  could  not  answer  it. 

So  as  the  days  passed  on,  the  two  men,  in  strange 
ways  not  taught  in  school,  spoke  together  and  be 
came  friends.  Hammerdale  admired  the  vigor  with 
which  Adam  was  handling  his  parish  work;  admir 
ing,  too,  the  dignity  with  which  he  bore  the  frigidity 
of  his  home,  so  different,  as  Hammerdale  remarked 
to  Gudrun,  from  the  bumptiousness  with  which  he 
had  formerly  asserted  his  lordly  rights.  Adam, 
meanwhile,  was  regarding  Hammerdale  and  his  ways 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  241 

with  thoughtful  mind.  He  knew  that  Hammerdale 
was  finding  out  that  getting  married  to  a  daughter 
of  the  Baroness  von  Hallern  was  not  all  beer  and 
skittles ;  and  he  suspected  that  deep  in  his  soul  Ham 
merdale  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  he  were 
going  to  lose  Gudrun  after  all.  Adam  was  the  man 
of  all  men  to  sympathize  with  such  forebodings;  and 
in  many  a  handclasp  he  gave  the  American  all  that 
his  heart  could  give  of  affectionate  support.  Ham 
merdale  felt  the  understanding  instantly,  and  many 
an  hour,  when  Gudrun  was  sewing  for  the  Hotten 
tots  and  the  blues  were  upon  him,  sought  out  the 
pastor  and  ranged  the  wintry  countryside  with  him, 
accompanying  him  on  his  rounds  and  gaining  fresh 
courage  from  Adam's  unalterable  confidence.  The 
sense  of  loyalty  that  had  kept  Adam  true  to  Gudrun 
for  ten  years  stood  Hammerdale  in  good  stead 
now. 

"The  parson  is  a  blamed  idealist,"  said  Jimmie, 
somewhat  troubled,  to  Gudrun  one  day  as  they  were 
returning  Manorward  from  the  parsonage.  "The 
way  he  shakes  hands  with  me  always  makes  me  feel 
as  if  he  were  giving  me  a  reserved  seat  ticket  in  the 
front  row  of  the  angels."  But  at  bottom  Hammer- 
dale  was  grateful,  for  he  knew  the  pastor's  devo 
tion  was  helping  him  over  some  jagged  rocks. 

The  admiration  of  the  pastor  for  Hammerdale, 
meanwhile,  was  not  without  its  good  effects  on  him 
self.  Tradition  had  taught  him  that  when  you  have 
feelings  you  show  them;  and  he  had  found  that  the 


242  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

results  were  sometimes  catastrophic.  Hammerdale 
had  a  quiet  way  of  exhibiting  his  pleasure  at  the 
beauty  of  a  fine  view,  for  instance,  or  a  folksong  or 
the  companionableness  of  an  after-dinner  hour  when 
the  four  of  them  sat  together  in  the  study  and  talked 
a  little  and  were  silent  much ;  and  he  never  tried  to 
conceal  his  devotion  to  Gudrun  or  his  affection  for 
the  parsonage  folk.  But  his  irritation  or  anger, 
if  he  ever  did  feel  any  (and  Adam,  knowing  the 
situation  in  the  Manor-house,  suspected  that  he 
might) ,  he  never  showed.  Hammerdale  might  have 
told  him  that  these  mental  miseries  were  as  per 
sonal  and  private  as  the  miseries  that  rack  the  body, 
and  no  more  than  they  to  be  paraded  or  even  men 
tioned.  Adam  would  probably  not  have  quite  under 
stood  this  comparison,  for  his  bodily  aches  had  al 
ways  seemed  to  him  a  perfectly  proper  subject  of  con 
versation.  But  he  admired  the  attitude  and  sought 
after  a  time  to  accept  it;  and  with  Esperanza  (with 
her  sword  over  his  head)  demanding  self-control  on 
the  one  side,  and  Hammerdale  quietly  exemplifying 
it  on  the  other,  the  pastor  gradually  began  to  con 
template  elevating  it  to  a  cardinal  virtue. 

February  grew  to  maturity,  and  the  date  of  the 
wedding  was  less  than  four  weeks  away.  Still  Gud 
run  and  Hammerdale  dropped  in  at  the  parsonage 
for  a  minute  or  an  evening  three,  four  and  five  times 
a  week,  escaping  when  they  could  the  thousand  plans 
of  the  Baroness's  inventive  mind;  but  the  cloud  that 
hung  over  the  gatherings  settled  rather  than  rose. 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  243 

A  new  care  was  added  to  the  gloom  by  the  illness  of 
Esperanza,  who  had  caught  cold,  with  the  rest  of 
the  neighborhood,  and  sat  listlessly  in  her  chair  by 
the  tile  stove,  wrapped  in  shawls,  while  the  others 
talked  boldly  of  futures  in  Wenkendorf  and  Colo 
rado  which  none  of  them  really  believed  in.  "When 
we  are  married,"  began  to  be  a  phrase  to  open  por 
tals  into  fairyland,  rather  than  into  a  real  future  in 
a  real  world. 

One  woebegone  afternoon,  when  they  were  sitting 
in  the  uncozy  dining-room  taking  their  afternoon 
coffee,  Gudrun's  perplexities,  and  incidentally  Ham- 
merdale's,  came  to  the  surface.  The  weather  had 
been  miserable  for  days.  A  warm  rain  had  melted 
a  recent  cover  of  snow,  making  the  roads  impassable 
either  for  runners  or  wheels,  and  barring  Gudrun 
even  from  the  paths  in  the  woods  which  had  always 
been  her  comfort  in  trouble.  In  the  Manor-house 
they  were  burning  lamps  from  morning  till  night,  for 
the  dark  ended  little  before  nine  o'clock  and  set  in 
again  shortly  after  three.  There  was  a  lamp  burn 
ing  in  the  parsonage  dining-room  now,  the  yellow 
light  mingling  in  dreary  fashion  with  the  gray, 
foggy  remnants  of  day. 

The  coffee  was  excellent,  for  Gudrun  had  held 
Esperanza  by  force  in  her  chair  until  she  consented 
to  stay  and  be  waited  on,  and  had  made  it  herself. 
The  fresh  Butterkuchen  came  direct  from  the  Man 
or-house  oven  and  was  still  warm,  and  Adam  was 
relishing  it  undisguisedly.  Hammerdale,  who  could 


244  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

not  get  used  to  five  meals  a  day,  was  smoking  in  a 
corner  where  a  draught  carried  the  smoke  away 
from  Esperanza  into  the  corridor;  and  Esperanza 

had  just  said,  "When  you  are  married,  Gudrun " 

when  Gudrun  halted  her  cup  midway  between  the 
saucer  and  her  lips  and  spoke. 

"Esperanza,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  any  more 
'When  you  are  married.'  '  Her  voice  was  quite 
controlled,  showing  the  intensity  behind  it  only  by 
the  rather  too  perfect  evenness  of  tone  and  the  quick, 
sympathetic  smile  which  followed  the  words  but  did 
not  belong  to  them,  being  evidently  meant  to  coun 
teract  whatever  impression  of  inner  disturbance  her 
words  might  create.  "I  think  we  have  all  been  a 
little  sentimental,  making  beaui  ful  plans  and  pre 
tending  that  everything  was  roses  for  Jimmie  and 
myself,  when  we  have  all  known  for  weeks  that  it 
wasn't  at  all  impossible  that  everything  might  be 
thorns.  Jimmie  and  I  must  begin  to  learn  to  face 
the  fact  that  it  may  happen  that  we  may  not  marry 
at  all." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  anyone  spoke,  the 
only  sign  of  life  coming  from  Hammerdale,  who 
was  quickly  enveloping  himself  in  smoke,  possibly 
making  a  try  at  the  ostrich's  classic  device. 

At  last  Esperanza  said  in  tones  scarcely  louder 
than  a  breath,  but  deep  with  understanding,  "Gud 


run." 


The  pastor  sat  with  hands  folded  in  his  lap,  star 
ing  into  his  empty  cup.    "Is  it  your  mother?" 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  245 

Gudrun  looked  up.  "Yes,  it  is  my  mother,"  she 
answered  quickly,  as  if  the  words  were  tormenting 
her  and  she  were  anxious  to  get  rid  of  them. 

"You  said,  I  think,  that  she  did  not  directly  op 
pose?" 

"No,"  Gudrun  answered,  drawing  out  the  word 
with  a  dubious  note  as  though  she  did  not  herself 
know  whether  she  were  speaking  the  truth.  "If  she 
had  opposed  I  should  never  have  let  Jimmie  go  on 
that  foolish  trip.  But  she  seemed  so  unhappy." 

"So?"  murmured  Pastor  Adam  with  the  curious 
inflection  he  seemed  to  keep  for  use  only  when  the 
Baroness  was  mentioned. 

"She  seemed  to  appreciate  our  sacrifice  for  her," 
Gudrun  continued,  for  ever  since  she  has  been  won 
derfully  dear.  Now  and  then  she  has  even  entered 
into  my  wedding  plans,  making  suggestions  for 
dresses  and  hats  and  such  things.  But  afterward 
she  always  cries  and  looks  so  forsaken  and  miser 
able  it  twists  my  heart-strings.  Sometimes  I  feel 
I  just  can't  leave  her.  Can  you  understand?" 

Adam  nodded  his  head  ponderously.  "Yes.  I 
understand." 

"Herr  Pastor,  what  shall  I  do?"  Gudrun  leaned 
pleadingly  over  the  table  toward  him  as  she  spoke. 
"I  could  never  be  happy  thinking  she  had  appealed 
to  me  and  I  had  deserted  her  for  my  own  ends. 
And  yet  you  know  what  Jimmie  is  to  me,  and  you 
know  that  he  has  taught  me  more  than  my  mother 
ever  taught  me.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  though  Jim- 


246  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

mie  had  been  father  and  mother  and  all  to  me.  And 
I  know  that  in  some  way  I  can't  understand  I  seem 
to  have  been  almost  as  much  to  him.  I  can't  de 
sert  him.  Isn't  it  a  mix-up?" 

"Oh,  I  pity  you,"  cried  Esperanza  feelingly. 

"What  does  Tchimi  say?"  asked  Adam. 

"Oh,  the  worst  of  it  is  that  since  he  came  back 
Jimmie  won't  say  anything  at  all.  I  just  see  him 
watching  us  all,  and  getting  more  and  more  anxious- 
looking,  but  when  I  ask  him  what  he  believes  is 
right  he  just  shakes  his  head  and  says  it  is  my  fight 
and  he  doesn't  dare  take  sides.  Oh,  Jimmie,"  she 
exclaimed,  turning  toward  the  smoke-wreathed 
figure  by  the  door.  "I  wish  you  were  not  a  horrid 
saint." 

Hammerdale  tried  to  grin.  "Thanks.  I  rather 
wish  I  were,"  he  answered,  speaking  in  that  slow, 
deliberate  way  of  his.  "I  might  be  able  to  perform 
a  miracle  or  two  and  persuade  your  family  that 
they  were  glad  to  be  rid  of  you." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  the  pastor.  Gudrun 
interpreted,  and  Adam  frowned  a  little  instead  of 
laughing  as  he  was  supposed  to  do;  for  his  occa 
sional  levity  was  the  one  quality  in  Jimmie  of  which 
the  pastor  emphatically  disapproved.  Levity  al 
ways  smacked  somewhat  of  the  devil  to  him,  and  re 
marks  of  Jimmie's  which  sailed  close  to  irreverence 
in  the  original  generally  sounded  to  him  well  over 
the  line  in  translation. 

"This  is  not  an  occasion  for  the  display  of  mira- 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  247 

cles,"  remarked  Adam,  just  a  touch  of  severity  creep 
ing  into  the  tones.  Hammerdale  twisted  his  mouth 
into  a  comical  shape,  which  signified  to  Gudrun, 
who  knew  the  grimace,  that  he  was  mentally  throw 
ing  up  his  hands  in  despair  at  Adam's  inability  to 
take  a  joke.  "It  is  altogether,"  Adam  went  on,  "a 
matter  of  conscience." 

"Oh,  but  don't  you  see,  Herr  Pastor,"  Gudrun 
cried  vehemently.  "I  don't  want  to  trust  this  to 
my  conscience.  I  have  such  a  stupid,  silly  con 
science  that  always  tells  me  that  the  thing  I  want 
to  do  is  selfish  and  wicked,  and  the  thing  I  don't 
want  to  do  is  noble  and  surely  right.  My  conscience 
isn't  a  just  judge." 

"Oh,"  cried  Esperanza,  coming  to  life  among  her 
shawls,  "I  thought  one's  conscience  always  was 
right." 

"I  suppose  one's  conscience  is,"  Gudrun  an 
swered  thoughtfully.  "But  there  seem  to  be  a  lot 
of  other  voices  inside  that  talk  so  loud — habit 
and  fear  and  affection  and  tradition,  for  instance 
— that  one's  conscience  can't  really  make  itself 
heard." 

"How  strange !"  whispered  Esperanza  dreamily. 

"If  you  cannot  hear  clearly  the  inner  voice,"  said 
the  pastor  reverently,  "you  can  do  nothing  but 
trust  that,  in  some  way  we  cannot  guess,  God  may 
give  you  light." 

A  swift  gleam  shot  over  Gudrun's  dark  eyes  like 
a  meteor  across  the  sky.  "And  idly  drift?"  she 


248  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

asked,  and  there  was  something  in  her  voice  that 
was  almost  resentment. 

"It  is  not  idle  drifting  to  trust  God.  It  is  hold 
ing  the  tiller  tight  while  we  wait  for  the  wind  to 
roll  away  the  clouds  from  before  the  stars."  And 
the  pastor,  glancing  involuntarily  in  the'  direction  of 
Esperanza,  drew  a  deep,  painful  breath  as  if  he,  too, 
were  holding  a  tiller  and  it  were  chafing  his  hands. 


CHAPTER   XV 

IN  WHICH  THE  OGRE'S  WIFE  WINS  STRENGTH  FROM 

THE  EVERLASTING  ARMS  AND  DELVES 

IN  THE  ARCHIVES 

IT  was  Esperanza's  cold  that  came  nearer  than 
any  misfortune  hitherto  to  disturbing  the  Baroness's 
placid  features.  For,  one  morning  after  breakfast, 
while  Gudrun  was  stitching  more  garments  for  the 
Hottentots  with  her  mother,  a  servant  came  with 
the  message  that  the  blacksmith  wanted  to  see  Frau- 
lein  Gudrun.  The  old  one-legged  veteran,  it  proved, 
had  been  sent  by  Adam,  as  the  only  available  mes 
senger,  with  the  news  that  Esperanza  was  sick  abed 
and  the  children  uncontrollable;  and  could  she  pos 
sibly  send  a  servant  to  tend  the  house  while  the 
pastor  was  away  on  parish  duties?  Gudrun,  visibly 
worried,  announced  to  her  mother  that  she  intended 
to  go  to  the  parsonage  herself,  and  spend  the  day 
there. 

uHow  tactless  of  the  pastor,"  cried  the  Baron 
ess,  foregoing  placidity  for  the  moment.  uHe  should 
have  known  that  you  are  needed  here." 

"But,  mother,  he  did  not  send  for  me.  He  asked 
only  for  a  servant." 

249 


250  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

"By  all  means,  Gudrun,  send  a  servant.  But  you 
stay  here  with  me.  It  is  so  cozy.  I  count  the  min 
utes  when  you  are  away." 

Gudrun  cast  a  helpless  glance  about.  "But  I 
must  see  that  Esperanza  is  well  cared  for." 

The  Baroness  gave  a  long  weary  sigh.  "My  Gud 
run,  how  glad  I  shall  be  when  all  this  confusion 
is  over  and  I  have  you  altogether  to  myself  again." 

Gudrun  felt  a  little  chill  creep  over  her  heart  as 
though  an  evil  power,  working  invisibly,  had  laid  its 
hand  on  it.  "I  don't  think  I  understand." 

The  Baroness  looked  up  at  her  from  her  needle 
work  with  that  smile  of  hers  that  seemed  so  warm 
and  loving.  "There  is  nothing  to  understand,"  she 
said,  patting  Gudrun's  hand. 

Gudrun  called  Hammerdale  from  an  argument 
concerning  brown  bears  which  he  was  carrying  on 
with  the  Baron,  and  together  they  waded  through 
the  slush  to  the  parsonage.  Gudrun  made  no  se 
cret  of  her  fear  that  Esperanza's  illness  might  prove 
more  serious  than  her  physical  condition  indicated. 

"They  must  have  had  some  terrible  break,  Jim- 
mie,"  she  said,  "and  I  can't  find  out  what  it  was. 
I've  begged  her  to  tell  me,  for  I  thought  I  might 
help  to  clear  things  up.  But  she  just  cried  out  that 
she  couldn't  tell.  She's  wearing  away,  Jimmie. 
Once  she  did  tell  me  that  she  was  so  perplexed 
that  it  seemed  her  head  never  would  stop  aching 
day  or  night.  Everything  is  topsy-turvy  in  her,  she 
says.  And  when  I'm  in  the  kitchen  with  her  she 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  251 

asks  questions  by  the  thousand,  like  a  child  that's 
just  discovered  trees  and  flowers  and  animals  and 
wants  to  know  all  about  them.  First  she  asked 
about  housekeeping,  and  when  I'd  told  her  pretty 
much  all  I  knew  she  started  to  ask  questions  about 
life  in  general,  particularly  about  marriage.  I  told 
her  she  probably  knew  more  about  marriage  than  I 
did  since  she  had  had  five  years'  experience,  but  she 
just  shook  her  head  in  that  bewildered,  queer  way 
she's  had  ever  since  I  found  her  that  day  all  broken 
up  about  something." 

"I  guess  the  main  trouble  is,"  suggested  Ham- 
merdale,  as  he  hesitated  a  moment  by  the  road 
side,  spying  for  a  ford,  uthat  the  little  lady 
has  waked  up  to  a  thing  or  two,  and  is  a  bit  off  her 
center." 

"Yes,  and  another  trouble  is,"  said  Gudrun, 
plunging  after  him  into  the  torrent,  since  ford  there 
was  none,  uthat  she  isn't  sure  that  she  wants  to 
find  it.  She  is  such  a  child,"  she  added,  and  Ham- 
merdale,  giving  her  his  hand  to  aid  her  crossing, 
noticed  that  her  eyes  were  cloudy  with  perplexity. 
"She  hasn't  been  trained  to  thinking  for  herself, 
she  isn't  used  to  it;  why,  I  suppose  she's  never 
formed  an  opinion  in  her  life,  or  tried  to  analyze 
a  situation  or  an  emotion.  And  now  she's  sud 
denly  snarled  up  in  the  biggest  tangle  we  humans 
know,  and  it's  just  too  much  for  her." 

Hammerdale  shook  the  water  from  his  shoes  and 
trouser-ends.  "Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,"  he  asked, 


252  FACES   IN   THE    DAWN 

speaking  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  "that  you  and  I 
might  be  a  bit  responsible?" 

Gudrun  allowed  herself  twenty  carefully  picked 
steps  through  the  slush  before  she  answered.  Her 
hand  was  on  the  latch  of  the  parsonage  gate  when 
she  spoke.  uYes.  And  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me 
tell  whether  I'm  sorry  or  glad." 

They  found  Esperanza,  as  well  as  the  household, 
in  better  condition  than  they  had  anticipated.  The 
elder  children  were  playing  funeral  in  the  study, 
as  the  pastor  was  away,  and  were  consequently  in 
as  subdued  a  state  as  the  fascinating  game  demanded. 
The  kitchen  was  really  very  neat,  as  Gudrun  no 
ticed  with  an  exclamation  of  satisfaction.  Es 
peranza  had  evidently  cooked  and  cleared  break 
fast  before  submitting  to  the  illness  which  had  at 
last  forced  her  into  bed.  "She's  plucky,  Jimmie," 
remarked  Gudrun,  "especially  plucky,  I  think,  be 
cause  it's  always  been  her  trouble  to  let  things  slide. 
I  wonder  if  the  pastor  ever  dreams  what  a  jewel 
he's  got." 

Hammerdale  stayed  with  the  children,  playing 
the  role  of  chief -mourner,  while  Gudrun  ascended 
the  dark  stairs  to  the  room  where  Esperanza  was 
lying. 

The  Frau  Pastorin  raised  herself  as  Gudrun 
knocked,  and,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  entered. 
She  was  worn  and  thin-looking,  poor  lady,  with 
the  red  spots  in  her  cheeks  shining  a  little  brighter 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  253 

than  usual.  "Oh,  Gudrun!"  she  exclaimed  with 
all  the  delight  her  weak  voice  could  summon.  "I 
never  even  hoped." 

"Here  I  am,"  Gudrun  remarked  with  the  conven 
tional,  overdone  cheerfulness  of  the  sick-room  vis 
itor.  "Well,  and  how  goes  the  world?" 

"It  must  be  influenza."  Esperanza's  voice  sounded 
apologetic  as  if  she  thought  influenza  a  vice.  "I 
just  could  not  stand  on  my  feet  any  more." 

Gudrun,  without  more  words,  took  her  watch  in 
one  hand  and  Esperanza's  left  wrist  in  the  other. 
Then  she  felt  Esperanza's  cheek  and  brow.  "A 
little  fever,"  she  said  in  matter-of-fact  tones.  She 
had  watched  the  fussy,  talkative,  third-rate  old  doc 
tor  from  Hiinenfeld  (who  used  snuff  and  sneezed 
much  more  than  ever  any  of  his  patients)  at  so  many 
bedsides  in  the  village  that  she  had  learned  fairly 
what  to  do  and  what  not  to  do.  "You  stick  in  bed 
now  for  a  few  days.  I've  told  Lisbeth  to  come 
over  from  the  Manor.  The  pastor  will  get  his 
meals  and  the  children  will  be  cared  for.  And  you, 
my  dear,  are  to  play  the  lady  of  leisure  and  loaf 
with  mind  and  body  as  you  never  loafed  be 
fore." 

Esperanza  had  sunk  back  on  her  flat  hair-pillow. 
"My  head  aches  so,"  she  said  timidly. 

Gudrun  laid  her  hand  on  Esperanza's  forehead 
and  kept  it  there.  "Aren't  you  trying  to  think  too 
much,  Esperanza?" 

Esperanza  did  not  turn  her  head,  but  lay  staring 


254  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

at  the  ceiling,  and  whispered:  uOh,  how  did  you 
know  that?" 

"I  have  seen  some  of  the  symptoms  before,"  she 
answered  softly.  "Thinking  in  a  straight  line  doesn't 
hurt  anybody,  but  the  trouble  with  you  and  me  is 
that  we  think  in  circles,  and  the  body  doesn't  like 
it." 

"In  circles,"  Esperanza  mused.  "Circles,  circles, 
circles." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you?" 

"Oh,  would  you?"  The  warmth  of  the  little 
lady's  gratitude  was  touching.  "Would  you  mind 
reading — a  Psalm?  Perhaps  the  one  that  begins: 
'Praise  the  Lord,  and  forget  not  all  his  benefits.' 
It  helps  me  sometimes  to  be  good.  The  Bible  is 
on  the  children's  table.  The  next  room,  where  the 
baby  is  sleeping.  The  baby  was  awake  all  night. 
You  will  not  disturb  him.  Thank  you  so  much." 
Her  voice  sank  to  a  deep  breath  and  the  last  words 
were  scarcely  articulate. 

Gudrun  found  the  Bible  on  the  bed  next  to  the 
sleeping  child  and  in  decidedly  battered  shape.  The 
hundred  and  third  Psalm  was  one  of  many  that  had 
disappeared  before  the  ravages  of  infant  hands. 
She  informed  Esperanza  of  that  fact. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Esperanza,  sighing.  "I  gave  it 
to  him  in  the  night  to  play  with." 

"There  must  be  a  Bible  on  the  pastor's  desk," 
Gudrun  suggested.  "I'll  run  down  and  see." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  you  mustn't.     Adam  never  lets  me 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  255 

have  his  Bible.  He  says  it  is  full  of  slips  of  paper 
with  notes  on  them,  and  I  might  lose  them.  I  have 
never  dared  touch  it." 

But  Gudrun  was  well  on  her  way  downstairs. 
"I'll  be  careful,"  she  called. 

She  found  Hammerdale  flat  on  the  floor  with  his 
hands  folded  across  his  breast.  The  children  were 
softly,  but  dismally,  intoning  what  was  supposed 
to  be  the  service.  "This  is  a  funeral,"  Jimmie  re 
marked  cheerfully,  "and  I  am  the  central  performer. 
Do  I  act  the  part  well?" 

"Oh,  Jimmie,"  Gudrun  cried,  "don't.  That  gets 
on  my  nerves." 

The  corpse  leapt  to  its  feet,  to  the  disappoint 
ment  of  little  Adam  and  Klarchen.  "Oh,  I'm  devil 
ishly  sorry.  Forgive  me  for  being  silly." 

"It's  stupid  of  me.  But — well — I  don't  know 
why — but  it  got  on  my  nerves." 

"Pretty  sick?"  he  asked,  with  a  nod  toward  the 
ceiling. 

"That  depends.  If  she  can't  get  her  thinking- 
machine  straightened  out,  yes,  pretty  sick.  Let  me 
go,  dear.  I  am  going  to  read  to  her." 

She  carried  Adam's  Bible,  with  its  half  hundred 
or  more  book-marks,  upstairs  as  though  the  soiled, 
brown  leather  covers  were  the  very  tablets  of  the 
Law;  nevertheless,  Esperanza,  turning  her  head  a 
little  as  she  came  into  the  room,  appeared  trou 
bled. 

"Be  very  careful,  Gudrun,"  she  pleaded. 


256  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

"He'll  never  know  I  stole  it  and  every  slip  shall 
stay  in  its  place." 

"I  don't  want  him  to  think  I  disobeyed  him." 

"Oh,  dear  child!"  was  all  Gudrun  could  say. 

"Please,"  whispered  Esperanza,  "the  one  begin 
ning  'Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul!'  ' 

Gudrun  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  bed  and  laid 
her  right  hand  softly  on  Esperanza's  forehead. 

"Oh,  that  feels  so  good,"  murmured  the  little 
lady.  "Can  you  leave  it  there  while  you  read?" 

Gudrun  held  the  heavy  Bible  almost  horizontally 
on  her  left  hand  so  that  the  misty  light,  falling  over 
the  foot  of  the  bed  directly  on  her  face  from  the 
one  window,  dimly  lit  the  page ;  and,  in  a  low,  firm 
voice,  began  to  read: 

Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul:  and  all  that  is  within 
me,  bless  His  holy  name. 

"Are  you  sure  that  is  the  one?  I  thought  it  said 
'all  his  benefits'  in  the  first  line." 

"Here  it  is,  Esperchen,"  said  Gudrun  quietly. 
And  went  on. 

Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul,  and  forget  not  all 
his  benefits. 

"Oh,  yes,"  whispered  Esperanza  with  a  sigh  of 
welcome. 

Who  forgiveth  all  thine  iniquities;  who  healeth 
all  thy  diseases; 

Who  redeemeth  thy  life  from  destruction;  who 
crowneth  thee  with  loving  kindness  and  tender  mer 
cies 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  257 

She  looked  up,  for  she  heard  a  sob.  Esperanza's 
face  was  as  though  all  the  sluices  in  her  heart  had 
broken  and  were  streaming  tears.  Her  lips  were 
convulsed  and  gave  her  face  a  tragic,  despairing 
look.  But  Gudrun,  with  a  quick,  deep  breath  to  con 
trol  her  own  tears,  took  up  the  Psalm  again,  her 
voice  as  calm  and  steady  as  though  it  were  merely 
an  instrument  for  the  divine  Voice  itself.  And  as 
she  read  she  passed  her  hand  gently  again  and  again 
over  Esperanza's  forehead  and  hair. 

Who  satis  fie  th  thy  mouth  with  good  things;  so 
that  thy  youth  is  renewed  like  the  eagle's. 

The  Lord  executeth  righteousness  and  judgment 
for  all  that  are  oppressed. 

He  made  known  His  ways  unto  Moses,  His  acts 
unto  the  children  of  Israel. 

The  Lord  is  merciful  and  gracious,  slow  to  anger 
and  plenteous  in  mercy. 

Esperanza's  tears  had  ceased  to  flow.  Her  face 
became  more  composed,  though  half-gasping  sobs 
were  still  contracting  her  lips.  Once  or  twice  she 
moaned  faintly.  Gudrun  read  on. 

He  will  not  always  chide:  neither  will  He  keep 
his  anger  forever. 

He  hath  not  dealt  with  us  after  our  sins  nor  re 
warded  us  according  to  our  iniquities. 

For  as  the  heaven  is  high  above  the  earth,  so 
great  is  his  mercy  toward  them  that  fear  him. 

As  far  as  the  east  is  from  the  west,  so  far  hath 
he  removed  our  transgressions  from  us. 


258  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord 
pitieth  them  that  fear  him. 

"Oh,  I  know  it,"  whispered  Esperanza,  and  the 
tears  came  again,  but  more  gently  now,  like  a  quiet 
summer  rain. 

For  he  knoweth  our  frame;  he  remembereth  that 
we  are  dust. 

As  for  man  his  days  are  as  grass:  as  a  flower  of 
the  field,  so  he  flourisheth. 

For  the  wind  passeth  over  it,  and  it  is  gone;  and 
the  place  thereof  shall  know  it  no  more. 

But  the  mercy  of  the  Lord  is  from  everlasting 
to  everlasting  toward  them  that  fear  him,  and  his 
righteousness  unto  children's  children;  to  such  as 
keep  his  covenants,  and  to  those  who  remember  his 
commandments  to  do  them. 

Esperanza  sighed  deeply;  and  closed  her  eyes. 
And  Gudrun,  casting  a  quick  glance  toward  her, 
saw  the  tense  lines  relax  and  a  look  of  peace  come 
to  the  tired  mouth.  Gudrun  let  her  hand  rest  on 
Esperanza's  forehead,  and  read  on: 

The  Lord  hath  prepared  his  throne  in  the  heav 
ens;  and  his  kingdom  ruleth  over  all. 

Bless  the  Lord,  ye  his  angels,  that  excel  in 
strength,  that  do  his  commandments,  hearkening 
unto  the  voice  of  his  word. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord,  all  ye  his  hosts;  ye  ministers 
of  his  that  do  his  pleasure. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord,  all  his  works  in  all  places  of 
his  dominion:  bless  the  Lord,  O  my  souL 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  259 

Gudrun  closed  the  book  gently  and  laid  it  on  the 
bureau  beside  the  bed.  Esperanza's  face  was  pale 
and  quite  calm,  and  she  was  breathing  deeply.  Gud 
run  bent  over  her.  Esperanza  was  asleep. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  silently  drew  shut 
the  curtains.  Then  she  took  her  seat  again  by  the 
bed  and  sat  for  a  long  time  with  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap.  Once  the  baby  woke  and  cried;  and 
she  went  quickly  and  took  him  in  her  arms  as  on  that 
first  eventful  evening.  The  touch  of  the  little  body 
seemed  to  make  winding  thoughts  straight  in  her. 
Love  and  marriage  and  children  seemed  scarcely 
selfish  desires  to  her  as  she  gave  him  a  spoonful  of 
water  to  drink  and  rocked  him  tenderly  in  her  arms 
till  he,  too,  fell  into  a  peaceful  sleep.  She  returned 
to  Esperanza  and  found  her  breathing  restfully  as 
before.  Then  she  tiptoed  downstairs. 

Hammerdale  was  keeping  little  Adam  and  Klar- 
chen  almost  superhumanly  quiet,  she  thought,  and 
found  that  the  reason  was  that  Jimmie  had  sug 
gested  (with  the  aid  of  hands  and  feet,  possibly) 
a  game  of  Indians,  the  object  of  the  participants 
being  to  emulate  as  far  as  possible  the  Indian's 
prime  virtue  of  taciturnity.  The  plan  worked  to 
perfection,  and  when  Gudrun  entered  the  study  she 
discovered  the  three  cross-legged  on  the  floor 
wrapped  in  blankets,  grunting  now  and  then  and 
making  faces  at  each  other,  but  speaking  no  single 
word. 

"Oh,  Jimmie!"  Gudrun  exclaimed,  with  an  hys- 


260  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

terical  little  laugh  that  slipped  from  her  control 
and  ended  in  a  sob.  "How  wonderfully  absurd  you 
are!" 

Hammerdale  answered  her  with  a  gesture  indi 
cating  that  it  might  not  be  wise  to  break  up  the 
game  with  speech  now,  and  Gudrun,  laughing  more 
normally,  proceeded  to  the  kitchen. 

Lisbeth,  the  maid  from  the  Manor-house  who 
had  been  designated  to  take  charge  of  the  parsonage 
during  Esperanza's  illness,  arrived  at  noon;  but  the 
pastor  himself  did  not  appear.  Lisbeth,  however, 
volunteered  the  information  that  he  had  probably 
been  called  to  the  outlying  farm  where  the  tardily 
penitent  old  reprobate  who  had  thought  of  dying 
at  Christmas-time,  but  had  postponed  the  event, 
seemed  really  to  be  in  his  last  throes.  Esperanza 
was  still  asleep  when,  early  in  the  afternoon,  Gud 
run,  conscious  that  her  mother  probably  needed 
her,  decided  to  return  to  the  Manor-house. 

They  closed  the  parsonage  door  behind  them; 
and  Gudrun,  remembering  the  baby  in  her  arms  up 
stairs,  and  below  the  two  children,  mum  as  wooden 
idols,  at  Hammerdale's  right  and  left,  looked  across 
the  tops  of  the  black  linden  boughs  into  a  patch  of 
blue,  and  asked  the  point-blank  question:  "Jim- 
mie,  is  there  anything  or  anybody  one  shouldn't  be 
willing  to  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  a  child?" 

"Oh,  bushels,"  he  answered,  pretending  indiffer 
ence,  as  he  opened  the  umbrella.  "Here,  this  way. 
You'll  drown  in  slush  over  there." 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  261 

"Jimmie?" 

"Don't  ask  foolish  questions."  He  seemed  ab 
sorbed  in  his  endeavor  to  find  a  fairly  adequate 
crossing.  uAnd  they  talk  of  European  roads !  Bad 
as  Routt  County.  Shall  we  swim  home  or  fly?" 

Esperanza  woke  from  a  long  dreamless  sleep 
with  the  faint  feeling  that  angels  had  camped  about 
her.  The  room  was  dark,  and  at  first,  half  asleep 
still,  she  thought  it  was  night  and  threw  an  arm 
over  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed  to  see  if  Adam 
were  there.  Not  finding  him  she  raised  her  head. 
Through  the  blue  cotton  curtains  she  could  see  that 
it  was  daylight  outside  and,  gradually,  she  recalled 
the  circumstances  of  the  morning,  Gudrun's  com 
ing  and  her  reading  of  the  Psalm,  her  own  sudden 
outbreak  and  that  hand  on  her  forehead  that  seemed 
to  draw  all  the  ache  and  misery  out  of  her  head, 
bringing  such  heavenly  peace.  She  wondered  vaguely 
what  her  miseries  had  been,  and  even  when  the 
memory  of  the  weeks  and  weeks  of  inner  turmoil 
returned  they  did  not  seem  quite  real.  She  lay  back 
on  her  pillow,  for  a  minute  luxuriously  at  ease.  Then, 
from  far  away  in  the  kitchen,  she  caught  the  fa 
miliar  sound  of  the  baby  crying  and  started  to  rise 
quickly.  But  as  her  feet  touched  the  floor  her  head 
began  to  swim,  and  she  sank  down  again,  afraid 
that  she  might  faint.  Full  consciousness  returned 
slowly,  and  at  last  she  was  able  to  call,  "Gudrun! 
Gudrun,  are  you  there?" 


262  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

She  heard  a  scamper  in  the  kitchen  and  steps  on 
the  stairs  that  did  not  sound  like  Gudrun,  and  not 
at  all  like  Adam.  An  instant  later  Lisbeth,  neat, 
red-faced  and  cheery,  appeared,  somewhat  breath 
less. 

"Oh,  Frau  Pastorin,  did  you  have  to  call  long?" 
cried  the  girl  sympathetically.  "I  was  listening  all 
the  time  for  the  Frau  Pastorin  to  call,  but  the  baby 
just  cried  and  I  didn't  hear  the  Frau  Pastorin  at  all." 

It  was  a  new  sensation  for  Esperanza  to  have 
anyone  so  servilely  awaiting  her  pleasure.  "No, 
Lisbeth.  You  came  so  quickly.  Thank  you/'  she 
said  gratefully. 

"Fraulein  Gudrun  said  the  Frau  Pastorin  was  to 
have  beef-broth  when  the  Frau  Pastorin  awoke. 
May  I  get  it?" 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much,"  Esperanza  murmured 
contentedly,  wondering  why  she  should  be  dream 
ing  of  fairyland  when  she  seemed  wide  awake. 

"The  rain  has  stopped  and  the  weather  is  going 
to  be  beautiful,"  Lisbeth  remarked  as  she  flung  back 
the  curtains  with  characteristic  energy.  "The  dear 
Lord  wanted  the  Frau  Pastorin  to  have  sunlight 
when  she  awoke." 

Whether  or  not  the  dear  Lord  sent  the  sunlight 
for  the  special  purpose  Lisbeth  imagined,  the  sun 
light  was  there,  and  a  warm,  bright  ray  from  the 
sunset  fell  full  through  the  window  on  the  very 
little  hill  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  where  Esperanza's 
feet  were. 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  263 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Esperanza.  "How  good!" 
Lisbeth  went,  returning  in  an  incredibly  short 
time  with  the  steaming  broth  and  a  resume  of  Gud- 
run's  final  directions  for  the  care  of  the  parsonage 
and  its  lady.  Esperanza  listened  dreamily ;  and  when 
Lisbeth  carried  her  kindly  heart  downstairs  again 
for  the  protection  of  the  children,  and  the  broth  had 
fulfilled  its  purpose,  Esperanza  lay  for  a  long  time 
watching  the  ray  of  sunlight  as  it  withdrew  from 
her  feet  and  slowly  climbed  the  wall.  She  was  not 
yet  quite  sure  that  she  was  awake.  The  world 
seemed  suddenly  so  impossibly  beautiful.  Lines  of 
the  Psalm  Gudrun  had  read  recurred  to  her.  "Who 
redeemeth  thy  life  from  destruction,  who  crowneth 
thee  with  loving  kindness  and  tender  mercies,"  her 
mind  whispered  to  her.  She  drew  herself  to  the 
edge  of  the  bed  and  reached  for  Adam's  Bible. 

The  Bible  was  heavy,  a  fact  which  Gudrun,  sup 
porting  it  on  her  open  left  hand,  had  grown  fully 
aware  of;  and,  as  Esperanza  drew  it  weakly  from 
the  bureau-top,  it  dropped  to  the  floor.  She  gave  a 
little  cry  of  fright,  but  was  reassured  when  she  dis 
covered  that  no  mark  had  slipped  from  its  place. 
The  back  cover  only  and  a  fly-leaf  had  been  thrown 
open,  and  she  was  leaning  over  to  close  these  on 
the  rest  of  the  book  when  her  own  maiden  name 
struck  her  eye.  She  bent  closer.  "August  20,  1907. 
Adam  Samuels  engaged  to  Esperanza  Kiste,"  she 
read.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  she  counted.  Five 
and  a  half  years  ago.  Those  had  been  very  happy 


264  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

days  five  and  a  half  years  ago,  she  remembered, 
and  her  dreamy  contentment  fled  suddenly  as  the 
memory  of  the  past  month  flooded  her  mind  again 
with  the  forgotten  waters  of  bewilderment.  She 
stared  over  the  end-board  of  the  bed  at  the  blue 
sky,  slowly  deepening.  The  ray  of  sunlight  had 
gone,  she  noted.  Once  more  she  leaned  over  the 
Bible,  looking  for  her  marriage  date.  There  it  was: 
"November  10,  1907.  A.  S.  and  E.  K.  married." 
Under  it,  she  thought,  must  come  the  date  of  little 
Adam's  birth,  but  what  she  read,  as  she  strained 
her  eyes  through  the  dusking  light,  was :  "February 
i,  1908.  G.  v.  H.'s  engagement  broken."  "G.  v. 
H."  She  was  puzzled  an  instant.  Gudrun  von 
Hallern,  of  course !  She  sank  back  on  her  pillow. 
How  strange  of  Adam  to  have  recorded  that,  and 
in  his  Bible.  What  difference  ever  did  it  make  to 
him  that  on  the  first  of  February,  five  years  before, 
Gudrun's  engagement  should  have  been  broken? 

She  tried  to  draw  the  book  nearer  and  as  she  did 
so  was  puzzled  dimly  to  discern  more  G.  v.  H.'s,  a 
dozen,  fifteen.  Her  heart  began  to  beat  more  quickly 
and  she  tried  to  raise  herself  and  take  a  step  in 
order  to  bring  the  book  close  to  her  eyes,  but  the 
world  span  about  her  and  she  sank  back  again, 
giddy  and  a  little  nauseated.  Gradually,  the  early 
twilight  blotted  the  whiteness  from  the  walls  about 
her,  blotted  away  the  stark  boughs  in  front  of  her 
window,  blotted  the  blue  out  of  the  sky.  And  every 
where  she  looked  G.  v.  H!  s,  in  Adam's  handwriting, 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  265 

flitted  and  danced  and  curtsied  before  Esperanza's 
eyes.  She  laid  her  hand  finally  on  her  brow,  feel 
ing  the  headache  returning  and  wondering  if  she 
were  quite  sane. 

She  heard  the  front  door  open  and  shut,  and 
Adam's  footsteps  crossing  the  flag-stones  of  the  hall 
into  his  study.  Then  she  heard  the  greetings  of  the 
children  (less  timid  than  formerly,  she  thought,  and 
wondered  why)  and  Lisbeth's  irrepressible,  kind 
heart  running  over  in  the  form  of  what  seemed 
interminable  gabble.  Then  she  heard  Adam's  step 
again,  first  on  the  flagging,  then  more  resonantly  on 
the  stairs. 

She  could  not  see  him  when  he  entered;  the  room, 
save  a  patch  by  the  window  that  a  big  star  was  light 
ing,  was  so  dark.  But  the  smell  of  rain-drenched 
clothes  came  to  her. 

"Good  evening,  Esperanza,"  said  the  pastor  with 
the  reserve  he  had  caught  from  her.  "Are  you  feel 
ing  better?" 

"Yes,  Adam,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  seeing 
G.  v.  H.'s  whirling,  like  fiery  pin-wheels,  where  the 
voice  came  from. 

"Old  Rapp  died,"  said  Adam.  "I  was  with  him 
all  day." 

"He  was  a  bad  man,"  said  Esperanza. 

Adam  sank  down  on  the  chair  that  had  been  Gud- 
run's.  "I  do  not  know,"  he  replied  with  a  finality 
that  suggested,  even  to  Esperanza's  unsubtle  mind, 
that  he  had  been  thinking  about  the  matter  for  a 


266  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

long  time,  and  felt  baffled.  uHe  changed  so  in  these 
six  weeks.  At  first  he  was  only  afraid  of  hell-fire, 
but  before  he  died  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all 
about  it,  seeming  to  see  heaven  near.  Six  weeks! 
It  is  strange  how  men  may  be  born  again  in  six 
weeks. " 

Esperanza  scarcely  heard  him,  for  the  G.  v.  H.'s 
were  beginning  to  find  voice  and  were  humming  and 
buzzing  about  her  ears. 

"Adam,"  she  cried,  when  it  seemed  to  her  she 
could  endure  the  sounds  no  more,  "why  did  you 
write  about  Gudrun  in  your  Bible?" 

She  heard  Adam  draw  in  a  long  breath  that  broke 
at  the  end  into  short  gasps,  and  she  heard  the  chair 
he  was  sitting  in  creak  as  he  straightened  his  huge 
back  and  spasmodically  drew  in  and  stretched  out 
his  feet  as  though  he  were  in  physical  pain. 

"What  have  you  done,  Esperanza?"  he  cried  at 
last  in  a  low  voice  such  as  a  father  might  use  to  a 
child  who  has  accidentally  broken  a  priceless  vase. 

Esperanza  did  her  best  to  explain  the  circum 
stances  attending  Gudrun's  use  of  Adam's  Bible. 

"Did  she  see  what  you  saw?"  he  asked  in  hushed 
tones. 

"No,  Adam." 

He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  rose  and  went  to  the 
window.  Esperanza  saw  his  bulky  frame  black 
against  the  starlit  sky.  She  groped  for  words. 

"Do  you  love  her?"  she  asked  at  last,  and  the 
words  sounded  to  them  both  as  though  they  were 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  267 

spoken  by  someone  on  another  star,  so  faint  and 
unlike  Esperanza's  were  the  tones. 

He  was  silent,  and  after  a  minute  he  turned  and 
stood  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  "You  must  forget 
all  this,  my  child,"  he  said,  adding  after  a  moment, 
with  evident  difficulty,  "it  was  a  dream." 

"I  did  not  dream  it,"  she  cried  piteously,  "I  know 
I  did  not  dream  it." 

"You  do  not  understand,  Esperanza.  It  was  I 
who  dreamed." 

She  caught  her  breath  at  the  somber  exaltation 
of  his  voice.  Then  she  saw  the  black  shadow  pass 
her  bed  and  heard  footsteps  descending  the  stairs. 

Esperanza  was  grateful  when  Lisbeth  interrupted 
the  new  merry-go-round  of  her  thoughts  by  coming 
singing  up  from  the  kitchen  with  a  lamp.  "It  is  so 
dark  for  the  Frau  Pastorin,"  she  remarked  dep- 
recatingly.  She  was  grateful,  indeed,  for  the  light 
itself,  for  she  was  afraid  of  the  dark,  particularly 
of  late,  since  evil  spirits  within,  uniting  with  not-im 
possible  ghosts  without,  had  frequently  made  her 
nights  a  misery.  "G.  v.  H.'s,"  moreover,  did  not 
flit  so  energetically  before  her  eyes  by  lamplight. 

The  thought  brought  again  remembrance  of  Ad 
am's  heavy  Bible,  half  hidden  under  her  bed.  She 
leaned  over  again.  The  lamp  was  shining  full  on 
the  page  of  chronicles.  "June  15,  1902,"  she  read, 
"G.  v.  H.  brought  me  a  basket  of  cherries."  She 
felt  a  catch  in  her  throat  as  she  tried  to  tell  herself 
that  this  was  a  silly  thing  to  write  in  a  Bible.  The 


268  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

next  was  no  more  significant :  "G.  v.  H.  gave  me  a 
pair  of  slippers."  "G.  v.  H.  gave  me  a  picture  for 
my  study"  followed,  and  so  on.  Absorbed,  she 
read  the  next  entries  concerning  Gudrun's  Confirma 
tion  and  first  Communion.  "To-day  I  was  one  of  the 
Twelve,"  she  read.  One  of  what  twelve?  she  won 
dered.  Then  she  suddenly  realized  that  Adam  had 
meant  the  Twelve  Disciples,  and  she  stared  at  the 
lamp  with  mouth  open,  startled  by  the  boldness  and 
wonder  of  that  revelation. 

Then  she  read:  "G.  v.  H.'s  first  ball";  and,  in 
stantly,  she  thought  of  her  own  first  ball  and  wished 
that  Adam  might  have  recorded  that.  The  next 
entry  was  dated  Christmas  Eve,  1906,  and  ran: 
"G.  v.  H.  gave  me  a  coffee-cup."  It  was  the  one 
she  had  given  the  child  to  play  with,  of  course,  and 
the  child  had  broken  it.  Esperanza  felt  a  guilty 
pang  that  she  should  have  been  responsible  for  a 
loss  that  must  have  seemed  tremendously  important 
to  him  since  he  had  valued  the  cup  enough  to  bear 
record  to  it  in  his  Bible.  The  next  date  was  August 
1 8,  1907.  UG.  v.  H.  engaged  to  a  man  who  is  not 
worthy  of  her."  Below  it  was  the  line  bearing  her 
own  name:  "August  20,  1907.  Adam  Samuels  en 
gaged  to  Esperanza  Kiste."  She  stared  at  the  dates. 
August  1 8  and  August  20.  Two  days  between  Gud 
run's  engagement  to  Count  Max  and  Adam's  en 
gagement  to  herself. 

She  did  not  try  to  read  more,  but  lay  back  with 
her  arm  across  her  eyes,  so  eager  to  understand 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  269 

that  she  felt  no  temptation  to  be  angry  with  Adam, 
even  for  those  two  dates  in  August,  which  seemed 
in  some  way  to  make  her  ashamed,  whether  for 
Adam's  sake  or  for  her  own  she  did  not  know.  The 
entries  stared  at  her  in  fiery  letters.  "G.  v.  H.  told 
me  that  I  am  to  confirm  her."  She  struggled  to  di 
vine  what  had  passed  in  Adam's  soul  on  this  date 
and  the  other.  She  could  not  guess,  except  that  he 
had  loved  Gudrun  for,  she  counted,  one,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten  years.  Five 
years  before  their  marriage  he  had  loved  Gudrun, 
and  five  years  after  their  marriage  he  loved  her  still. 
Had  Gudrun  ever  loved  him?  Nothing  in  the  en 
tries  indicated  that  she  had,  and  Esperanza,  with 
out  analyzing  elaborately,  felt  through  the  simple 
gratitude  for  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  years  after, 
for  a  coffee-cup,  that  Adam  had  never  dreamed 
of  asking  higher  favors,  being  content  merely  to 
love.  That  was  curiously  unselfish  and  humble  of 
Adam. 

She  stared  over  the  footboard  and  saw  the  stars 
twisting  themselves  into  G.  v.  H.'s.  Oh,  of  course, 
she  suddenly  cried,  of  course,  Adam  loved  Gudrun. 
How  could  he  help  it?  If  Gudrun  had  made  a  new 
being  of  herself,  Esperanza,  in  these  few  weeks 
since  Christmas,  what  must  she  not  have  been  to 
Adam  in  the  course  of  those  ten  years?  "To-day 
I  was  one  of  the  Twelve."  How  close  to  the  divine 
his  love  must  have  been  on  that  day.  How  high 
and  noble  it  must  have  been  from  the  very  start  to 


270  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

have  made  him  wish  to  lay  it  before  God  in  God's 
own  Book. 

Esperanza,  hearing  Adam's  footsteps  on  the  floor 
below,  suddenly  felt  a  thrill  as  if  some  hero  in  a 
fairy  story  had  come  to  life.  "Adam!"  she  cried, 
"Adam,  Adam,  Adam,  come!" 

She  heard  a  scurry  in  the  kitchen  and  Lisbeth's 
excited  tones :  "Herr  Pastor,  Herr  Pastor !"  and  then 
Adam's  quick  steps  as  he  hurried  across  the  hall 
and  up  the  stairs. 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him.  uOh,  Adam!" 
she  cried.  He  knelt  beside  the  bed  and  she  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  All  her  perplexities 
seemed  to  vanish,  the  anger  she  had  felt,  the  cold 
resentment,  all  seemed  to  melt  in  the  glow  that  was 
suffusing  her.  Even  the  sense  of  her  unworthiness, 
as  she  saw  the  emptiness  of  the  soul  she  had  asked 
him  to  love  beside  the  great  brimming  spirit  that 
had  owned  all  his  devotion,  brought  no  pang  in  the 
joy  of  her  new  understanding.  uOh,  Adam,  for 
give  me!" 

He  kissed  her  hand.  "I  have  been  untrue  to 
you,  Esperanza,"  he  whispered  penitently. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered.  "You  could  not  help 
it.  I  was  so  weak  and  foolish.  I  brought  you  noth 
ing,  and  she  brought  you  so  much.  You  could  not 
love  me  when  you  had  once  loved  Gudrun."  Her 
voice  unexpectedly  broke. 

An  hour  ago,  had  Esperanza  given  him  the 
chance,  he  would  have  cried  out  to  her  that  he  did 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  271 

love  her  now,  that  his  love  for  Gudrun  had  in  some 
wonderful  way  passed  over  to  her,  that  she  had  made 
him  hers  with  her  terrible  scorn  that  night  beside 
the  little  white  form  of  Klarchen  on  the  bed.  But 
Esperanza's  discovery  of  the  devotion  he  had  cher 
ished  in  his  innermost  sanctuary  gave  it  a  quick  re 
ality  that  he  thought  it  had  forever  ceased  to  pos 
sess.  He  wanted  to  withdraw  himself  from  those 
eyes,  because  he  could  not  guess  how  the  mind  be 
hind  those  eyes  might  judge  the  spiritual  experience 
that  had  meant  so  much  to  him,  finding  it  base, 
perhaps,  or  merely  an  idle  sentimentalizing.  Es- 
peranza  would  think  the  situation  over,  he  thought, 
and  would  resent  it  later,  even  if  she  did  not  seem 
to  resent  it  now.  A  new  sense  of  disloyalty,  more 
over,  crept  for  the  first  time  into  his  consideration 
of  those  boyish  entries  in  his  Bible,  and  he  felt  hu 
miliated  in  his  own  eyes;  since  he  had  always  prided 
himself  on  his  sense  of  loyalty,  thinking  of  Gud 
run  always,  never  of  Esperanza. 

So  he  let  Opportunity  slip  by,  the  elusive  Oppor 
tunity  he  had  longed  for  these  many  lonely,  frigid 
weeks,  seeing  for  the  moment  only  the  St.  Teresa  im 
age  of  his  former,  solitary  years;  and  leaned  over 
and  kissed  Esperanza  gently  on  her  forehead,  but 
said  nothing;  and  kissed  her  again  even  more  gently, 
and  still  was  silent.  Then,  as  his  knee  touched  an 
open  book  on  the  floor  beside  Esperanza's  bed,  he 
bent  down  and  found  his  Bible;  and  closed  it,  and 


272  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

rising  bore  it  slowly,  as  one  in  a  dream,  down  the 
stairs  into  his  study. 

Esperanza  was  too  happy  over  the  breaking  up 
of  the  ice  in  her  own  being  to  be  disappointed  that 
Adam's  rivers  were  not  yet  running  free. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

IN  WHICH  THE  MELANCHOLY  PERSONAGE  MAKES  A 
DISCONCERTING  DISCOVERY  AND  A  CONSCIEN 
TIOUS  AMAZON  A  PROMISE 

DURING  the  days  immediately  following  Es- 
peranza's  day  of  fever  and  discovery,  Gudrun  and 
Hammerdale  walked  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 
They  knew,  too,  where  they  were  walking,  fully 
aware  of  their  peril.  Hammerdale  recalled,  after 
ward,  what  a  boon  the  uncertainty  of  the  weather 
was  to  them  during  those  days;  for  they  were  able 
to  bring  up  the  subject  perfectly  naturally  twenty 
times  a  day  without  appearing  utterly  fatuous.  They 
remarked  how  like  April  it  was ;  would  there  be  rain 
next  or  snow;  perhaps  it  might  hail — in  that  case 
how  good  there  were  no  crops  ripening!  (They 
decided  later  that  this  remark  of  Gudrun's  deserved 
the  prize  for  pure  fatuity.)  Now  and  then  they 
branched  into  literature,  Gudrun  asking  his  opinion 
of  Ellen  Key  and  Ricarda  Huch  (of  whom,  she 
knew,  he  was  as  ignorant  as  his  umbrella)  ;  and 
Hammerdale  gravely  discussing  United  States  Farm 
ers'  Bulletins.  The  trouble  was  that  the  Baroness, 

273 


274  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

during  the  hours  Gudrun  was  caring  for  Esperanza, 
had  suddenly  waked  up  to  the  fact  that  her  love 
for  Gudrun  had  completely  transcended  diplomatic 
pretense,  and  had  become  a  living  fact.  The  dis 
covery  set  old  cobwebbed,  rusty  engines,  that  had 
not  stirred  for  decades,  slowly  to  turning,  amid  much 
inner  turbulence  and  some  pain.  Placidity  vanished, 
and  in  its  place  came  the  nervous  groping  from  half- 
seen  buoy  to  buoy  of  ship-captains  trying  to  make 
harbor  without  a  pilot. 

They  had  had  a  scene,  that  involved  tears,  in 
the  Baroness's  bedroom  when  Gudrun  returned  from 
the  parsonage,  for  the  Baroness  reproached  her  for 
her  long  absence,  and  Gudrun,  seeking  to  explain, 
offended  her  mother  still  more  by  incidentally  di 
vulging  plans  for  frequent  further  absences. 

"Oh,  my  Gudrun,"  the  Baroness  exclaimed  at 
last,  breaking  down  a  little.  "I  have  been  thinking 
so  much  of  past  years.  I  have  reproached  myself. 
I  have  not  been  to  you  what  I  should  have  been. 
Give  me  the  chance  now,  give  me  the  chance,  my 
Gudrun,  to  make  up  to  you  the  love  I  failed  to  give 
when  you  needed  it.  Give  me  the  chance  to  find  now 
what  I  lost,  so  that  I  may  go  to  my  grave  happy 
and  with  a  clear  conscience."  Her  words  were  the 
words  of  one  who  has  trained  herself,  whatever  the 
crisis,  to  preserve  pure  diction,  and  a  suspicion  shot 
through  Gudrun's  mind  that  her  mother  might  be 
play-acting.  But  the  tones  had  a  ring  of  sincerity; 
and  the  color  receded  from  Gudrun's  cheeks. 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  275 

"I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  love  me,"  she  an 
swered  quietly,  though  her  heart  seemed  suddenly 
to  pitch  and  toss. 

"Then  stay  with  me,  my  Gudrun,"  cried  the  Baron 
ess. 

"You  mean — you  mean  this  afternoon,  don't 
you?"  Gudrun  asked  falteringly. 

Her  mother's  soft  brown  eyes  turned  to  hers  in 
pleading  devotion.  "You  know  what  I  mean." 

Gudrun  had  hold  of  herself  now.  She  was  glad 
that  the  words  she  had  dreaded  for  weeks  to  hear 
had  at  last  been  spoken,  and  she  answered  quite 
calmly.  "You  want  me  to  give  up  Jimmie." 

The  Baroness  knew  that  she  was  acting  selfishly, 
but  she  did  not  want  to  appear  crudely  selfish.  "For 
your  happiness,  Gudrun,  as  well  as  mine  I  wish  it." 

Gudrun  straightened  up  and  her  face  was  like 
marble.  "My  own  happiness  I  can  take  care  of.  I 
am  old  enough  for  that." 

"Your  happiness,  my  child,"  answered  the  Baron 
ess,  smiling  faintly  her  old  placid,  melancholy 
smile,  as  if  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  a  selfish 
world  and  had  learned  to  be  patient  with  it.  "But 
mine?" 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  so  much,"  Gudrun 
cried. 

"I  know,  my  child.  I  have  a  right  to  ask  noth 
ing."  She  laid  the  faintest  emphasis  on  the  word 
right. 

"Oh,  but  I  can't!" 


276  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

"I  am  not  young  any  more.  I  have  not  had  a 
happy  life.  Your  father  has  wronged  me  deeply. 
I  have  never  spoken  of  it.  I  am  not  one  who  com 
plains.  I  have  asked  nothing  of  him.  I  have  asked 
nothing  of  you  before  this." 

Gudrun  found  her  mother's  voice  strangely  lulling, 
as  Pastor  Adam  had  found  it  on  Christmas  Day. 
It  seemed  insidiously  to  sap  her  strength.  "Our 
wedding  is  scarcely  three  weeks  off.  How  can  you 
ask  me  to  give  him  up?" 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  decide  now,  my  child.  But 
when  you  think  over  what  I  have  said,  consider 
whether  when  I  am  gone  and  buried  you  will  not 
be  glad  if  you  have  done  what  your  mother  asked 
of  you."  She  patted  Gudrun's  cheek  softly,  the 
play-actress  uppermost  in  her.  But  the  true  emotion 
broke  through  once  more  in  a  cry.  "Oh,  Gudrun, 
do  not  leave  me  !" 

Gudrun  and  Hammerdale  had  devoted  their  in 
frequent  conversations,  during  the  days  following 
her  scene  with  the  Baroness,  largely  to  the  weather, 
for  the  reason  that  the  one  subject  that  was  upper 
most  in  both  their  minds  Hammerdale  refused  ab 
solutely  to  discuss. 

"You  understand  your  relation  to  your  mother," 
he  said  as  they  were  sitting  in  the  living-room  late 
after  the  Baron  and  his  lady  had  retired,  "and  I 
don't.  I  couldn't.  You  couldn't  explain  it.  A  thou 
sand  things  you  don't  understand  yourself  will  be  in 
fluencing  you  when  you  finally  decide." 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  277 

"Oh,  but  Jimmie,"  she  interrupted.  "I  have  de 
cided." 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  have.  But  I  think  you've 
got  an  A  i  head  on  your  shoulders  and  your  heart's 
where  it  ought  to  be.  If  I  leave  you  alone  things'll 
be  right  whichever  way  you  decide.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  try  to  butt  in,  things  may  come  out  most  all- 
fired  wrong.  Thank  you,  no.  'He  also  serves,  etc.' 
I  may  be  as  happy  sometimes  as  a  standful  of  fans 
watching  a  man  steal  third  when  the  home-pitcher's 
back  is  turned,  but  I  don't  intend  to  give  you  grand 
stand  advice.  Now  don't  try  to  frown,  because  you 
can't.  And  don't  try  to  persuade  me,  because  you 
won't." 

He  grinned  feebly,  and  a  second  later,  looking 
rather  more  grave  than  usual,  held  out  his  hand. 
"Come  on.  Shake  on  it." 

"But  don't  you  see,  it's  this  way.  If  my 
mother " 

Hammerdale  bent  down  to  where  she  was  crouch 
ing  in  an  armchair  and,  coming  close,  looked  straight 
in  her  eyes.  "I  love  you,  I  believe  in  you,"  he  said 
in  low,  firm  tones.  "I  believe  in  you  a  long  sight 
more  than  I  believe  in  myself.  I  want  you  to  do 
what  looks  to  you  right.  But  I  want  you  to  do  it 
because  you  do  think  it's  right,  not  because  you 
think  that  tradition,  or  your  mother,  or  the  Sultan 
of  Bolo  wants  you  to  do  it.  I  won't  have  you 
crawl." 

She  drew  the  head  that  was  close  to  hers  still 


278  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

closer  and  kissed  him.    "I'll  promise,  Jimmie,  dear. 
I  won't  crawl." 

"Good,  shake,"  he  said. 

"Shake,"   she   answered.     They  shook. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

IN  WHICH  A  DRUNKARD'S   WHISTLE  RAISES  THE 
DEVIL,  LAYS  A  GHOST  AND  ENDS  A  REBELLION 

THEN,  one  morning,  from  the  last  source  in  the 
world  from  which  Pastor  Adam  would  have  ex 
pected  it,  came  for  Gudrun  and  Hammerdale  and 
for  them  all,  the  wind,  that  was  God,  driving  the 
clouds  from  before  the  stars.  It  came  fairly  well 
disguised,  for  it  came  in  the  form  of  a  shrill  whistle 
from  a  drunken  man  who  had  somehow  drifted  into 
the  back  pew  of  the  Wenkendorf  church.  The  pas 
tor  heard  it  (as  he  was  supposed  to)  and,  inter 
rupting  his  eloquence,  ordered  the  sexton  to  remove 
the  offender.  This  was  not  quite  easy,  for  the  of 
fender  had  an  accomplice,  also  drunk,  and  they  re 
sisted  ejection.  A  half  dozen  sturdy  parishioners, 
however,  seemed  not  sorry  for  a  diversion,  and,  with 
strength  but  quietly,  befitting  the  place,  set  the  dis 
turbers  outside  the  door.  The  sexton  within  stood 
guard.  And,  meanwhile,  the  bolder  of  the  two  out 
side,  a  Pole  from  the  German  provinces,  entertained 
his  companion,  a  ne'er-do-weel  and  eyesore  of  Wen 
kendorf,  with  a  delectable  story. 

279 


28o  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

The  ne'er-do-weel  laughed  hilariously  and  the 
Pole  laughed;  and  Pastor  Adam,  in  his  pulpit,  heard 
them  and  thundered  louder  than  before  to  drown  the 
ugly  sound.  The  men  were  rocking  in  each  other's 
arms  with  unholy  glee  when  the  congregation,  frown 
ing  to  a  man  (for  they  took  their  religion  seriously 
on  Sundays),  emerged  from  the  church.  The  men 
were  driven  to  shelter  behind  a  low  hedge,  whence 
they  hooted  derision.  At  last  the  pastor  himself 
came  to  the  steps,  but  the  men  had  turned  into  the 
highway,  and,  reeling  and  singing,  disappeared 
through  a  cottage  door. 

Adam  turned  back  into  the  church  to  speak  a 
word  to  Gudrun  and  Hammerdale.  He  was  angry 
and  distressed.  The  disturbance  was  outrageous; 
he  felt  humiliated  that  such  a  sacrilege  should  be 
perpetrated  in  his  church,  and  there  was  anger  in 
his  glances  as  he  came  down  the  aisle  again.  Gud 
run,  as  he  had  noticed  from  the  chancel,  was  pale, 
and  her  features  seemed  more  clearly  marked  than 
formerly,  sterner,  more  stonily  calm.  They  spoke  of 
unimportant  things;  then  Gudrun  said: 

"My  mother  regretted  that  she  could  not  come. 
She  is  ill." 

"I  am  sorry,"  Adam  replied,  without  much 
warmth. 

"She  has  sent  for  the  doctor.  She  is  quite  fright 
ened." 

The  pastor  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  as  he 
glanced  quickly  at  the  steel-blue  eyes  gazing  straight- 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  281 

ly  past  him  out  of  the  window  and  miles  beyond, 
he  divined  the  latest  developments  in  the  struggle 
at  the  Manor-house.  The  Baroness  was  thinking, 
or  pretending  to  think,  that  she  was  going  to  die. 
And,  unconsciously,  he  drove  home  Hammerdale's 
preachment:  uTo  find  the  right  and  to  follow  it  is 
more  important  than  the  life  or  death  of  any  hu 
man  being."  Then,  lest  he  appear  to  have  taken 
sides,  he  added,  "Including  your  own."  Which, 
from  the  standpoint  of  Gudrun's  natural  inclina 
tions,  was  possibly  an  unsatisfactory  anti-climax. 

Adam  watched  Gudrun  as  she  walked  with  her 
excellent  Young  Man  down  the  little  aisle  and  out 
into  the  bright  morning,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  watching  her  walk  out  of  his  life.  During 
the  days  since  Esperanza's  discovery  of  his  secret, 
the  pain  of  nerves,  laid  bare,  had  gradually  sub 
sided  as  he  began  to  comprehend  Esperanza's  at 
titude.  She  did  not  drag  his  love  for  Gudrun  into 
the  light  of  common  day  as  he  had  feared  she  might, 
subjecting  it  to  the  indignity  of  cold  examination 
and  questions;  and  she  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
jealous.  If  she  felt  any  pang  because  of  his  in 
fidelity  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  largely  self- 
reproach.  Adam  had  continued  to  love  Gudrun 
because  she,  Esperanza,  had  failed  in  her  duty.  Thus 
she  argued.  She  had  been  a  drudge  with  a  drudge's 
ideals;  never  a  wife  to  companion  him  into  the 
clear  airs.  One  thing  only  he  knew  Esperanza  could 
not  forget:  those  two  dates  in  August  five  years 


282  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

before.  Why,  Esperanza  was  saying  to  herself  over 
and  over  again,  why,  if  Adam  loved  Gudrun,  had 
he  done  her,  Esperanza,  the  deep  injustice  of  asking 
her  to  marry  him? 

Adam  understood,  more  or  less  clearly,  that,  ex 
cept  for  this  one  thing,  Esperanza  bore  him  no  re 
sentment;  and  the  wonder  grew  in  him  that  this 
mild  creature  he  had  thought,  five  years  ago,  he 
had  honored  beyond  her  wildest  dreams  by  his  mar 
riage  with  her,  should  prove  so  nobly  magnanimous. 
Other  women,  he  suspected,  would  have  made  a  fine 
to-do  about  this  dream-infidelity  of  his;  and  won 
dered  why  Esperanza  had  hidden  her  light  under  a 
bushel  so  long.  They  might  have  been  so  happy 
had  she  only  shown  him  long  ago  how  noble  she 
was.  And  then,  he  wondered,  if  possibly  he,  Adam, 
had  been  blind. 

He  entered  the  parsonage.  Esperanza  was  work 
ing  in  the  kitchen,  and  singing  as  she  worked,  for 
she  had  escaped  from  her  bed  the  morning  after 
her  fever-day,  feeling  more  free  and  light-hearted 
than  she  had  felt  in  years.  Adam,  who  usually  buried 
himself  in  his  study  as  soon  as  service  was  over, 
passed  the  time  of  day  with  her  in  the  kitchen,  and 
lingered  as  if  work  were  less  attractive  than  for 
merly  or  possibly  his  wife  were  more  alluring.  Es 
peranza,  peeling  potatoes,  felt  his  gaze  and  was 
conscious  of  the  blood  gently  creeping  into  her 
cheeks.  For  she  had  a  clean,  sky-blue  muslin  dress 
on  and  her  hair  was  neat  and  she  peeled  the  po- 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  283 

tatoes  with  a  precision  Gudrun  had  instilled  in  her; 
and  all  that  was  feminine  in  her  shouted  through  her 
being  that  she  was  an  attractive  little  body  to  look 
upon  and  glad  she  had  a  caller. 

Adam  stood  by  the  open  door  of  his  study,  ex 
pecting  any  minute  to  retire  into  it,  but  postponing 
retirement,  for  he  found  that  his  eyes  seemed  to 
rest  more  easily  and  comfortably  on  Esperanza's 
fair  hair  bending  over  the  bowl  of  potatoes  than 
on  any  sight  they  had  come  upon.  He  said  nothing 
at  all,  and  his  silence  gradually  made  the  flush 
deepen  on  Esperanza's  cheeks  and  rise  to  her  fore 
head. 

She  looked  up,  finally,  with  an  embarrassed  smile 
that  actually  (oh,  demure  Esperanza!)  had  a  sug 
gestion  of  coquetry  in  it.  "Why  do  you  look  at 
me  that  way?"  she  asked.  "You  will  make  me  cut 
my  finger." 

Her  words  broke  the  spell  he  seemed  to  be  under. 
He  turned  once  more  toward  the  study.  "You  have 
changed,"  he  said  slowly,  and  certainly  to  judge  by 
those  tones  no  saint  was  ever  more  obtuse  to  coquetry 
or  more  secure  from  the  temptation  to  inspire  it. 
"You  have  changed." 

Esperanza  laid  the  knife  into  the  bowl  when  he 
had  gone,  and  folded  her  hands.  A  smile  that  was 
the  smile  of  a  girl  of  sixteen  passed  like  a  ray  of 
light  across  her  face,  hesitating  an  instant  at  the 
corners  of  her  lips,  an  instant  in  the  deeps  of  her 
eyes.  The  temptation  came  to  her  to  run  after 


284  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

Adam,  and  make  him  tell  her  how  she  had  changed 
(it  would  be  pleasant  to  hear  it  from  his  lips).  But 
she  thought  of  the  precepts  of  Gudrun,  and  went  on 
peeling  her  potatoes. 

Into  the  parsonage,  at  four  o'clock  that  after 
noon,  and  into  the  pastor's  study,  came  two  elders 
of  the  Wenkendorf  church.  One  was  tall  and  thin 
and  old,  slightly  bent,  and  wearing  a  long  beard. 
That  was  Jakob  Rasch.  He  was  the  Lear  of  the 
parish,  a  pathetic  figure,  who  had  long  outlived  his 
usefulness,  outlived  his  friends,  outlived  even  his 
children  and  grandchildren  with  the  exception  of 
one  granddaughter  who,  in  her  youth,  had  strayed 
somewhat  into  primrose  byways,  and  now,  keeping 
house  for  him  in  her  middle-age,  vented  her  wrath 
at  the  scorn  of  her  contemporaries  upon  his  help 
less  old  head.  His  face  was  thin,  his  mouth  almost 
toothless,  but  his  pale  blue  eyes  had  the  deep 
appeal  of  one  who  aches  to  die,  and  cannot  turn  the 
trick. 

His  companion  was  a  much  younger  man,  the  local 
barber,  and  dentist,  surgeon  and  undertaker,  on  the 
side.  He  was  short  and  stocky  and  had  a  face  like 
a  golden  full-moon  with  irresponsible  lines  that  in 
sisted  on  curving  upward  whatever  the  director  in 
the  brain  of  Emil  Rind  ordered.  Thus  he  had  a 
way  of  looking  quite  cheerful  when,  as  surgeon,  per 
haps,  he  was  actually  sad;  and,  when  he  was  try 
ing  to  be  deeply  sympathetic,  in  his  office  of  under- 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  285 

taker,  for  instance,  he  would  appear  the  picture  of 
carefree  mirth. 

The  pastor  greeted  his  visitors  cordially.  The 
pathos  of  the  elder,  the  avocation  of  the  younger  had 
brought  both  close  to  him  during  the  years  of  his 
pastorate  at  Wenkendorf.  The  two  men,  how 
ever,  if  they  felt  cordial,  were  too  embarrassed 
to  show  it.  They  refused  the  chairs  Adam  of 
fered  them  and  seemed  unable  to  talk.  At  last 
Adam  asked  them  whether  they  had  any  special 
request. 

Rasch  looked  at  Rind  and  Rind  at  Rasch.  At  last 
the  old  man,  nudged  none  too  gently  by  the  younger, 
moved  his  lower  jaw  with  its  long  beard  up  and 
down  two  or  three  times,  as  if  to  test  whether  it 
was  in  order,  and  spoke. 

"Yes,  yes,  Herr  Pastor,"  he  said  in  a  whiny  sing 
song,  casting  his  pathetic,  half  blind  eyes  up  at  Adam. 
"We  have  something  on  our  hearts.  That  man  this 
morning  who  whistled " 

"I  hope  he  has  been  locked  up,"  said  Adam 
sternly. 

"Yes,  yes,  Herr  Pastor,"  replied  the  old  man,  "he 
has  been  locked  up.  Emil,  here,  he  locked  him  up 
himself." 

"I  locked  him  up,"  echoed  Emil  Rind,  speaking 
solemnly,  and  looking  more  like  a  happy  full-moon 
than  ever. 

"Yes,  yes,  Herr  Pastor,"  went  on  the  whiny 
Rasch,  shaking  his  head  mournfully,  "life  is  sad, 


286  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

sad.  He  told  such  a  story,  Herr  Pastor,  such  a 
story.  Lies,  all  lies.  About  the  Herr  Pastor." 

"So?"  commented  Adam  coldly. 

"About  the  Herr  Pastor.  Sad,  sad.  When  the 
Herr  Pastor  was  in  Silesia,  in  Stromau." 

Adam  was  thankful  that  he  was  sitting  down, 
for  his  knees  trembled  so  that  he  knew  they  would 
not  have  held  him.  He  did  not  attempt  to  answer, 
speaking  only  another  faint  "So?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Herr  Pastor,"  went  on  the  dreary  sing 
song,  "the  story  is  all  over  the  village  and  every 
one  is  greatly  excited  and  Emil,  here,  he  said,  'you 
go  to  the  Herr  Pastor,'  and  I  said,  'no,  you  go,' 
and  he  said,  'no,  you  go/  and  at  last,  to  save  a  fight 
on  the  Lord's  day,  Herr  Pastor,  and  I  not  being  as 
young  as  once  I  was,  we  both  came." 

Adam  sat  and  said  nothing,  but  his  heart  seemed 
suddenly  a  pit  where  ghastly  specters  were  waging 
a  victorious  struggle  with  the  new  glories  and  hopes 
and  aspirations  he  had  won.  The  low  past  he  felt 
he  had  overthrown  so  completely  that  he  never  even 
feared  it  might  challenge  him  again  had  risen  and 
was  here  in  his  house  and  would  destroy  him  after 
all. 

"What  does  the  man  say?"  asked  Adam  at  last. 

"Yes,  yes,  it  is  a  long  story,  Herr  Pastor,"  whined 
Jakob  Rasch.  "About  a  rich  peasant  and  his  daugh 
ter  and  how  the  Herr  Pastor  wanted  to  marry  the 
daughter  who  was  a  loose  bird,  so  they  say,  and 
how  the  father  said  no,  and  the  daughter  struck 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  287 

him,  and  the  peasant  took  a  whip  and — and  horse 
whipped  him " 

Adam  rose;  and  his  sallow,  flat  cheeks  were  white, 
and  the  hand  that  supported  him  against  the  desk 
fumbled  and  fidgeted  nervously.  But  it  was  more 
than  his  mere  bulk,  towering  above  the  flustered 
elders,  that  made  Rind  turn  his  beaming  face  quickly 

to  his  companion  and  say,  in  hushed  tones 

"You  old  fool  you,  can't  you  see  it's  a  lie?" 

But  Adam  gritted  his  teeth  and  said:    uThe  story 


is  true." 


Somehow  the  men  got  out  of  the  house,  whether 
by  chimney,  window  or  door  Adam  never  could 
say  definitely.  When  they  had  gone  he  remained 
an  instant  rigid  and  silent.  Then,  in  a  voice  that 
had  so  much  of  pain  in  it  that  Esperanza  gave  an 
answering  cry  when  she  heard  it,  he  called:  "Es 
peranza  !" 

She  found  him  sunk  back  in  his  chair  when  she 
came  running  in,  staring  in  black  misery  at  the  floor. 
His  hair  was  wildly  rumpled  and  the  lines  of  his 
face  were  so  deep  that  they  seemed  black  in  con 
trast  to  the  pallor  of  the  skin.  He  was  breathing 
deeply  in  and  out,  as  though  he  had  taken  part  in 
a  physical  struggle. 

"Oh,  Adam!"  Esperanza  cried,  sinking  on  the 
floor  beside  him  and  reaching  up  her  arms.  "What 
have  they  done  to  you?" 

Adam's  hand  groped  toward  her  hair  and  stroked 


288  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

it  softly.  "My  Esperanza,"  he  whispered  faintly, 
as  if  a  bleeding  wound  were  fast  stealing  his 
strength. 

"What  is  it?    Tell  me.    What  have  they  done?" 

His  hand  stopped  and  lay  like  a  heavy  weight  on 
Esperanza's  head.  "They  are  telling  an  evil  story 
about  me,"  he  whispered. 

She  laid  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  drew  her 
self  closer  to  him.  "You  know,  7  will  never  believe 
it,"  she  said  loyally. 

"You  are  good/'  he  replied,  not  daring  yet  to 
meet  her  eyes.  "But  the  story  is  true." 

"I  am  sure  it  cannot  be  so  very  bad,"  she  said, 
looking  up  with  childlike  trust. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  "Not  utterly  bad," 
he  answered  at  last  thoughtfully,  as  if  he  were  try 
ing  to  classify  the  sin  and  pigeon-hole  it  in  his  for 
mer  fashion.  "Only  ignoble." 

"Will  you  tell  me  about  it,  Adam?  I  will  not 
judge  you." 

He  bent  down  quickly  and  kissed  her  hair;  and 
Esperanza  felt  a  tear.  She  looked  up  quickly.  Ad 
am's  head  was  bent.  After  what  seemed  to  her  a 
long  time,  he  spoke. 

"When  I  was  pastor  in  Stromau,  ten,  fifteen  years 
ago,  I  came  and  went  a  great  deal  in  the  houses  of 
the  wealthy  peasants  in  my  parish.  They  lived  very 
well,  and,  after  a  time,  I  began  to  think  that  meat 
and  wine  were  more  necessary  to  me  than  a  good 
conscience.  I  neglected  my  parish  and  spent  my  days 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN  289 

and  nights  with  the  rich  peasant-folk.  I  became  a 
parasite,  Esperanza." 

"What  is  a  parasite  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  sold  myself  for  food  and  drink,"  he  went  on, 
"while  the  poor  in  my  parish  suffered.  It  was  so 
for  five  years.  Then,  one  day,  I  found  that  I  had 
fallen  in  love  with  the  only  child  of  one  of  the  rich 
est  peasants  in  the  valley.  Her  name  was  Kathe 
and  she  was  beautiful,  and  one  evening  when  we 
were  alone  under  the  trees  in  the  moonlight  I  seemed 
to  melt  at  the  touch  of  her  and  I  kissed  her  and 
she  said  she  loved  me  and  loved  me  not  and  loved 
me.  And,  for  months,  she  kept  me  in  torment. 
And  in  those  months  the  Devil  showed  me  the  king 
doms  of  the  world,  and  I  wanted  her  possessions  al 
most  as  I  wanted  her.  At  last  she  said,  'Go  to  my 
father.'  I  went  to  her  father.  He  did  not  under 
stand  at  first  what  I  wanted  and  when  he  under 
stood  he  laughed  and  said  I  was  insane  and  called 
Kathe,  and  she  laughed,  too,  that  I  should  think  that 
she,  who  was  a  rich  peasant's  girl,  would  marry  a 
worthless  parasite.  And  I  went  into  a  rage  and 
cried  out,  asking  why  she  had  kissed  me  and  loved 
me  under  the  mulberry  tree  by  the  brook.  And  she 
struck  me  and  the  peasant  took  his  whip  and  whipped 
me  out  of  the  house  and  out  of  the  court  and  down 
the  highway.  And  I  heard  the  stable-boys  laughing 
and  Kathe  laughing  and  I  ran  home  and  laughed  and 
laughed  and  laughed." 

There  was  a  ring  of  wild,  bitter  laughter  under 


FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

the  words  that  made  Esperanza  shrink  a  little. 
Adam  felt  her  body  drawing  away  and  he  cried  like 
a  lost  soul  at  the  final  court,  pleading  for  mercy, 
"Esperanza!'7 

Her  sudden  repulsion  vanished,  She  threw  back 
her  head  and  drew  herself  close  and  kissed  him. 
"Adam,  Adam,  I  love  you!"  she  cried  again  and 
again. 

"My  Esperanza, "  he  murmured,  quieted  by  her 
caresses.  "That  this  should  come  now!  I  have 
wiped  it  out  of  my  soul,  the  stain  of  it,  wiped  it  out 
in  suffering,  and  God  has  forgiven.  I  know,  because 
my  conscience  is  clear  again.  God  does  not  reproach 
me  with  Stromau.  Oh,  why  should  men  reproach  me 
with  it?"  His  voice  dropped,  but  there  was  more 
anguish  in  the  tones  than  before  when  he  continued. 
"That  this  should  come  now!  Now,  when  we  have 
found  each  other  at  last,  Esperanza.  You  have  for 
given  me?" 

"Oh,  Adam,"  she  cried.  "Do  not  make  me  think 
of  that  word." 

"You  are  good,"  he  went  on.  "I  have  not  de 
served  such  a  good  wife.  And  now  we  must  go 
away  from  Wenkendorf " 

"Go  away?"  she  exclaimed  in  consternation. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  heavily.  "Do  you  think  they 
will  tolerate  me  here?  And  I  had  begun  to  love 
them,  Esperanza.  I  said  to  myself,  I  have  found 
my  abiding  place.  These  are  my  children.  A  dream, 
Esperanza.  We  must  begin  again." 


FACES   IN   THE   DAWN  291 

"But  that  will  not  be  hard  now,  Adam,"  she  whis 
pered  through  tears,  "for  we  shall  work  together." 

"Together,"  he  mused,  nodding  his  head.  "Not 
singly  any  more — so,  so — you  make  me  forget  my 
pain  and  my  anger,  my  anger  against  those  hounds 
from  Stromau !  Esperanza " 

He  folded  his  great  arms  about  her,  staring  dog 
gedly  off  into  space  as  though  he  were  watching  the 
world  rise  in  arms  against  him  and  were  crying  to 
the  world:  "You  have  robbed  me  of  everything  save 
this,  but  this  I  hold!" 

Dusk  filled  the  room  and  brought  the  night  and 
the  night  brought  a  slender  moon  that  shone  through 
dark  boughs;  but  not  until  the  children  came  tip 
toeing,  half-frightened  down  the  stairs,  with  the 
baby  shuffling  and  sliding  in  the  rear,  crying  for  sup 
per,  did  Adam  and  Esperanza  stir.  As  they  trooped 
into  the  kitchen,  all  together,  Adam  held  his  head 
high. 

The  elders  had  not  exaggerated  when  they  said 
that  the  parish  was  worked  up  over  the  story  the 
Silesian  laborer  had  spread  abroad.  It  turned  out 
that  he  had  been  one  of  the  stable-boys  on  the  farm 
where  the  tragic  farce  had  occurred.  He,  therefore, 
knew  all  details,  with  comments  by  Kathe  and  her 
father  of  which  even  Adam  knew  nothing.  He  was 
a  shiftless  tramp,  who  had  come  to  Wenkendorf  by 
accident  and  quite  by  accident  dropped  into  the  back 
pew  of  the  church.  His  going  proved  as  strange 


292  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

as  his  coming,  for  that  same  Sunday  night  he  broke 
from  the  room  where  he  was  confined,  pending  a 
cross-examination,  and  disappeared.  He  was  never 
seen  again.  But  the  story  was  there,  corroborated 
by  Adam  himself.  The  story  could  not  escape. 

The  parish,  for  all  his  labor  and  his  love,  the  par 
ish  laughed,  as  Adam  knew  that  every  parish  within 
twenty  miles  would  be  laughing  before  a  week  was 
up.  He  pressed  his  lips  together  that  Monday  morn 
ing  and  made  ready  to  go  about  his  work.  This 
was  not  as  difficult  as  he  had  feared,  for  there  were 
singing  voices  amid  the  glooms  in  his  soul.  For  Es- 
peranza  had  drawn  close  to  him  as  he  rose  from 
breakfast  and  whispered,  "Remember,  I  shall  be 
thinking  of  you  wherever  you  go.  So  you  will  not 
be  altogether  alone,  will  you,  Adam?"  and  the  sense 
of  companionship  had  lent  rigor  to  his  spine. 

Adam  opened  the  parsonage  door  and  stepped  out 
into  the  world  with  a  sense  that  every  leafless  bough 
and  bush,  every  rock  and  wall,  almost,  and  certainly 
every  window  was  grinning  at  him  and  pointing 
fingers.  Perhaps  they  were.  Adam  walked  the 
gauntlet,  looking  not  to  right  or  left.  The  par 
ishioners,  he  found,  were  not  all  grinning.  Some 
were  prone  to  put  the  worst  interpretation  on  his 
relations  with  the  flirtatious  Kathe,  and  to  speak 
ponderously  of  moral  laws;  others,  less  ungenerous, 
remarked  merely  that  Wenkendorf  might  do  well 
to  find  a  shepherd  who  had  not  been  a  black,  or  at 
least  a  gray,  sheep  himself.  There  was  open  talk 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  293 

over  coffee-cups  and  butter-tubs,  but  mostly  over 
beer-mugs,  for  the  men  were,  as  usual,  the  worst  gos 
sips,  concerning  dismissal,  transference,  reprimands 
from  above,  and  such.  This  baseless  gabble  re 
ceived  unexpected  stimulus  through  a  rumor,  ema 
nating  from  the  servants'  quarters  at  the  Manor- 
house  (whither  a  certain  maid  named  Lena,  a  listener 
at  keyholes,  had  carried  it),  that  the  Manor-folk 
had  emphatically  declared  that  the  pastor  must  go, 
and  that  there  would  be  no  wedding  at  Wenkendorf 
until  he  did  go  and  a  successor  was  appointed. 

Kind  friends,  of  course,  communicated  these  tid 
ings  to  Adam,  not  once,  but  a  dozen  times,  as  he 
went  his  round  of  parish  calls  that  chilly  February 
morning.  They  told  him  other  things,  not  with 
words,  but  with  the  look  of  an  eye  or  the  pressure 
of  a  hand,  but,  good  or  ill,  he  forgot  these  in  the 
crushing  disappointment  the  news  from  the  Manor- 
house  conveyed.  A  successor?  Another  would 
marry  Gudrun  and  his  friend  Tchimi.  So  there  was 
another  dream  gone  with  the  rest.  He  tried  to 
doubt  the  validity  of  the  rumor,  but  there  was  re 
ality  in  the  ring  of  it;  for  he  knew  the  Baroness's 
pride  sufficiently  to  realize  that  though  a  vicious 
man  might  preach  and  marry  in  Wenkendorf  till  the 
moon  went  hissing  in  the  sea,  an  absurd  man  might 
not.  But  Gudrun?  And  Jimmie  Hammerdale? 

He  knew,  of  course,  that  Gudrun  would  be  loyal 
to  the  parsonage  through  thick  and  thin,  but,  never 
theless,  a  fear  crept  in  that  she  who  would  forgive 


294  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

thieving  and  murder,  if  necessary,  might  not  forgive 
the  sheer  vulgarity  of  the  farce  of  Stromau;  or,  in 
finitely  worse,  that  even  she  might  laugh  a  little,  and 
so  drop  forever  out  of  his  sky.  It  was  curious  that 
as  he  bravely  went  his  round  that  morning  he  felt 
surer  of  Hammerdale,  in  spite  of  his  occasional  lev 
ity,  than  of  Gudrun;  possibly  because,  though  he 
loved  Jimmie,  his  judgment  meant  less  to  him  than 
Gudrun's.  He  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  either  the 
whole  of  that  long  Monday  forenoon.  If  they  were 
true  to  him,  he  pondered  gloomily,  surely  he  would 
have  heard. 

If  Adam  could  have  looked  into  the  Manor-house 
that  morning  he  might  have  forgotten  his  fore 
boding  and  distrust.  The  Manor-house  was  in  tur 
moil.  The  Baroness,  whose  imagination  was  keen 
in  the  matter  of  physical  ailments,  had  managed  to 
work  herself  into  a  really  dangerous  state.  The 
old  doctor  from  Hiinenfeld,  snuff-box  and  all,  had 
been  at  her  bedside  since  the  previous  evening,  and 
was  looking,  not  only  physically  weary,  but  anxious. 
The  Baroness's  heart  had  evidently  gone  wrong. 
The  old  doctor  had  not  the  slightest  idea  whether  it 
had  expanded  or  contracted  or  merely  broken,  as  the 
Baroness  intimated;  but  he  looked  learned  and  held 
her  pulse  and  shook  his  head  and  otherwise  acted 
as  his  profession  demanded;  and  in  odd  moments  re 
tired  for  a  pinch  of  snuff.  Gudrun  hovered  about 
her  mother's  bed  as  nurse  and  general  director  of 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  295 

ceremonies,  torn  in  mind  between  warm  sympathy 
and  the  chilly  suspicion  that  her  mother  might  be 
play-acting  again.  Hammerdale  was  below-stairs 
and  as  peaceful  in  spirit  as  a  prisoner  in  a  court 
waiting  for  the  return  of  the  jury.  Now  and  then 
the  Baron,  puffing  at  his  lengthy  Fiirst  Billow,  would 
sit  down  next  him  and  mischievously  and  not  at  all 
maliciously  discuss  parsons  in  general,  since  Ham 
merdale  persisted  in  courteously  sidetracking  every 
incipient  discussion  of  Pastor  Adam  in  particular. 

The  story  had  filtered  into  the  upper  apartments 
of  the  Manor-house  rather  slowly.  The  kitchen  and 
servant  quarters  knew  it,  of  course,  even  before  the 
two  elders  had  called  on  Adam  at  the  parsonage; 
but  the  illness  of  the  Baroness,  to  whom  the  maids 
as  a  rule  dutifully  delivered  all  gossip  of  the  sort, 
made  her  inaccessible;  and  Gudrun  squelched  so 
promptly  the  only  attempt  to  retail  the  sorry  story 
to  herself  that  she  did  not  find  out  until  Monday 
morning  that  the  tattle  was  about  the  pastor.  She 
heard  it,  finally,  from  two  maids  who,  instead  of 
sweeping  and  dusting  the  rooms  as  they  had  been 
told,  were  giggling  in  the  corridor. 

"Magda !  Lena !"  Gudrun  called,  opening  the 
door  of  her  mother's  sitting-room.  "Quiet!  What 
is  the  matter?  This  house  seems  possessed." 

A  little  sheepishly,  but  proud  at  bottom  to  be  the 
bearers  of  such  delectable  gossip,  the  girls  told  the 
story,  missing  no  points  and  elaborating  freely. 

Adam's  fears  had  been  quite  groundless.     Gud- 


296  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

run  showed  no  inclination  whatever  to  laugh.  In 
deed,  she  pressed  her  lips  so  tightly  together  to 
keep  inaudible  the  sob  in  her  throat,  that  the  girls 
became  frightened,  expecting  a  lecture.  But  Gud- 
run  delivered  no  lecture.  "Get  me  my  hat  and  coat, 
and  my  rubbers,"  she  cried. 

"Gudrun,"  called  the  Baroness  in  a  weak  voice. 
"Where  are  you  going?" 

Closing  the  door  softly,  Gudrun  returned  to  her 
mother's  bed.  "I've  got  to  go  to  the  parsonage," 
she  said  agitatedly. 

"Is  it  necessary  that  you  should  leave  me,  my 
Gudrun?"  whispered  the  Baroness  in  gentle  tones 
containing  just  enough  resignation  to  make  the  words 
a  reproach. 

Gudrun  decided  that  the  longest  way  round  was 
possibly  the  shortest  road  to  her  object.  So  she  sat 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  repeated  the  story 
of  the  pastor  as  she  had  heard  it,  omitting  obvious 
lies  and  toning  down  the  lurid  colors.  The  Baron 
ess  showed  signs  of  returning  life. 

"And  now  you  understand,  mother  dear,  why  I 
must  leave  you  for  just  half  an  hour,  don't  you?" 
Gudrun  asked,  kissing  her.  "The  pastor  and  Es- 
peranza  will  need  support  to-day,  even  if  the  story  is 
not  true." 

"Why  should  the  story  not  be  true?"  asked  the 
Baroness  in  mild  surprise. 

"It  sounds  true,  I  admit." 

"He  was  horsewhipped?" 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  297 

"That  is  the  story." 

"And  a  peasant-girl.     Gudrun,  a  liaison!" 

"No,  that  is  not  true.    Not  even  Lena  said  that!" 

"Gudrun,"  murmured  the  Baroness,  patting  her 
hand.  "My  beautiful,  innocent  child.  Keep  your 
pure  faith  in  human  nature  even  if  it  be  ill- 
based." 

Gudrun  felt  fires  break  and  rise  in  her.  The  sus- 
piciousness,  the  sentimentality,  the  utter  lack  of  un 
derstanding  of  her  own  outlook!  Her  fingers  bent 
and  pressed  into  her  palms,  her  shoulders  drew  up 
as  her  back  stiffened,  her  toes  danced  in  her  shoes. 

Lena,  the  chambermaid,  knocked  and  opened  the 
door.  "Your  coat  and  hat,  Fraulein  Gudrun.  The 
rubbers  are  in  the  vestibule." 

Gudrun  went  to  the  door.  "Thank  you,  Lena," 
she  said,  and  started  to  put  on  her  battered  red 
felt  hat.  "I  am  going  to  the  parsonage,  mother. 
Shall  I  tell  the  pastor  and  his  wife  that  we  all  believe 
in  him  and  stand  back  of  him?" 

"No."     The  tone  was  emphatic. 

"No?" 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  go  to  the  pastor's." 

Gudrun  came  back  quickly  to  her  mother's  bed 
side.  "Why?  Tell  me  why  you  do  not  wish  it. 
It  is  important  now  that  I  should  know  exactly  why 
you  do  not  wish  me  to  go  to  the  pastor's." 

"You  are  cold.  How  can  you  be  so  cold  to  your 
mother,  Gudrun?"  The  Baroness  was  maneuvering 
for  position. 


298  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  seem  cold.  I  only  wish  to  know 
your  attitude." 

"I  am  ill.  You  must  have  consideration.  You 
must  not  cross-question  me." 

Gudrun  clenched  her  hands  again,  for  she  felt 
the  Hallern  temper  asserting  itself. 

"All  I  want  to  know,  mother,  is  why  you  do  not 
wish  me  to  go  to  the  parsonage." 

"I  have  always  disapproved  of  your  going  there 
so  much,"  answered  the  Baroness  in  soft  tones.  "But 
you  were  wilful.  Now  you  see  that  I  was  right." 

"Why,  no,  I  don't,"  said  Gudrun,  puckering  her 
forehead,  puzzled  to  find  the  logic. 

"You  will  understand  when  you  are  older." 

"Good  heavens,  mother,  what  are  you  driving  at? 
You  go  around  things  like  a  cat  around  a  bowl  of 
hot  porridge.  You  look  as  if  you  meant  a  lot  and 
say  nothing  at  all.  Do  tell  me  what  you  want  me 
to  do." 

"Be  careful.     Be  careful,  Gudrun.     I  am  ill." 

Gudrun  threw  up  her  hands.  "Mother,  this  is 
pure  theater!" 

The  Baroness  took  no  notice  of  this  last  evidence 
of  the  Hallern  temper;  but  she  did  return  to  the 
subject.  "Of  course,  Pastor  Samuels  cannot  stay  at 
Wenkendorf,"  she  remarked  as  if  the  statement 
were  axiomatic. 

"Of  course  he  can,"  Gudrun  cried,  up  in  arms. 
"He  must." 

"I  shall  see  that  the  matter  is  laid  before  the 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  299 

Consistory."  She  gave  a  sigh  which  sounded  much 
like  a  sigh  of  relief.  "And,  of  course,  your  mar 
riage  will  have  to  be  postponed." 

Gudrun  regarded  her  mother  quietly.  "Do  you 
think  so?"  she  asked. 

"I  could  not  endure  now  having  Pastor  Samuels 
perform  that  holy  sacrament  for  my  child." 

The  Hallern  temper  gave  a  shout,  but  Gudrun 
lulled  it  and  said,  "Still  that  would  be  no  reason  for 
postponing  my  marriage.  There  are  other  pastors, 
though,  of  course,  I  intend  to  have  Pastor  Samuels." 

The  Baroness  raised  her  delicate  eyebrows  until 
the  round  eyes,  eyebrows  and  nose  looked  like  two 
exquisitely  designed  Romanesque  windows  with  a 
stately  column  between.  "My  child,  you  intend?" 

Gudrun's  face  had  its  warrior  look.  "Yes,"  she 
answered. 

"But  if  your  father  and  I  forbid?" 

"You  know  father  will  not  forbid." 

"But  if  I,  your  mother,  whom  you  love,  if  I  for 
bid?" 

Gudrun  breathed  deeply  and  came  close  to  her, 
regarding  her  with  steady,  waiting  eyes,  as  though 
after  long  searching  she  were  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  truth.  "Why  should  you  want  to  for 
bid?" 

The  Baroness  took  Gudrun's  hand.  "I  so  want  to 
keep  you  for  myself,"  she  whispered. 

Gudrun's  eyes  withdrew,  unsatisfied.  She  and  her 
mother,  she  noted  with  a  sigh,  were  still  following 


300  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

each  other  around  the  porridge.  "I  am  going  to 
stand  by  the  pastor,"  she  said,  hoping  the  direct 
statement  might  draw  a  direct  reply. 

"Still,  Gudrun,"  said  the  Baroness  mildly,  "that 
will  not  affect  the  action  of  the  Consistory." 

"But  you  must  not  write  to  the  Consistory." 

"Must  not?"  asked  the  Baroness  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  about  the  verb!"  Gudrun  ex 
claimed.  "But  must  is  what  I  mean." 

A  look  crept  into  the  Baroness's  eyes  that  Gud 
run  had  not  seen  there  for  five  years,  but  had  seen 
plentifully  during  the  course  of  the  struggles  that 
preceded  the  end  of  her  engagement  to  Count  Max. 
It  was  a  curiously  catlike  gleam.  It  meant  that  the 
Baroness's  back  was  up. 

"You  are  my  daughter,"  murmured  the  Baron 
ess.  "I  think  finally  you  will  do  as  I  wish." 

Gudrun  walked  to  the  window  to  control  her 
tongue  and  make  sure  that  she  would  phrase  her 
answer  right.  At  last  she  turned.  "If  I  think  that 
what  you  ask  of  me  is  right,  of  course  I  shall  al 
ways  do  as  you  wish.  But,  of  course,  you  would 
not  want  me  to  follow  your  wishes  if  I  thought  that 
by  following  them  I  was  doing  wrong."  She  was 
glad  when  she  had  safely  uttered  the  elaborate  state 
ment. 

The  Baroness  followed  her  with  her  eyes  to  the 
window  and  back  to  the  bed.  "I  think  you  should 
let  me  remain  the  judge  of  the  right  and  wrong  of 
my  wishes." 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  301 

Gudrun  laughed  outright.  "Why,  mother!"  she 
cried.  "You  wouldn't  want  to  make  me  a  puppet 
on  strings,  would  you?" 

"I  wish  I  could  make  you  a  good  daughter,"  an 
swered  the  Baroness. 

But  at  that  moment  Gudrun,  sitting  at  the  foot 
of  her  mother's  bed,  thinking,  with  eyes  half  closed 
and  hands  clenched,  saw  the  light.  She  rose,  laugh 
ing  as  people  laugh  sometimes  at  funerals  for  sheer 
nervousness;  but  there  was  the  faintest  suggestion 
of  gladness  in  her  laugh.  She  pushed  the  lace  cur 
tains  aside  as  if  she  wanted  more  light  and  more 
light;  still  laughing  faintly. 

"Child,"  exclaimed  the  Baroness  querulously, 
"what  are  you  laughing  at?" 

Gudrun  turned  and  the  clouds  were  all  gone  from 
her  eyes.  "Mother,"  she  cried,  "think  what  fools 
you  and  I  might  have  made  of  ourselves!  I  might 
have  given  up  Jimmie — I  nearly  did — because  I 
thought  you  needed  a  friend,  when  you  only  wanted 
a  puppet!" 

"Gudrun,  what  are  you  saying?" 

"It  makes  me  cold  to  think  I  might  have  given 
up  Jimmie,  and  been  so  terribly  fooled!"  She 
went  to  the  window  again.  The  Hallern  temper 
was  up. 

The  Baroness  was  suddenly  pale.  "Gudrun,"  she 
cried  in  a  weak  voice.  Gudrun  did  not  turn.  "Gud 
run,  come!"  she  called. 

Gudrun  turned  quickly.     Her  mother  was  puf- 


302  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

fing  heavily,  gasping  for  breath.  "My  heart/'  she 
whispered. 

Gudrun  propped  her  up  with  pillows  and  ran  to 
the  hall  and  out  on  the  balcony  that  overhung  the 
dining-room.  "Herr  Doktor!  Jimmie!  Come 
quick!" 

Jimmie  came,  three  steps  at  a  time,  and  the  old 
doctor,  with  red  handkerchief  trailing  from  the 
rear  pocket  of  his  frock-coat,  came  agitatedly  be 
hind. 

"A  real  seizure !"  Gudrun  whispered.  "And  I'm 
responsible.  We  had  a  scene,  Jimmie,  and " 

The  doctor  was  fidgeting  about  the  Baroness, 
but  she  waved  him  away.  "Gudrun,"  she  whis 
pered. 

Gudrun  came  and  bent  over  her.  "Gudrun,"  said 
her  mother  in  a  low  voice,  "tell  me  that  you  ask 
my  forgiveness,  tell  me  that  you  will  be  my  obedient 
daughter  that  I  may  die  in  peace." 

Hammerdale  knew  from  the  Baroness's  tone  and 
the  frightened  glance  Gudrun  cast  him  that  here  was 
the  crucial  moment  at  last.  Gudrun  hesitated. 

"My  Gudrun?"  asked  the  Baroness  with  a  return 
of  the  melancholy  smile. 

"Mother,"  whispered  Gudrun,  "try  to  go  to 
sleep." 

"Yes,  when  you  have  told  me." 

Gudrun  endeavored  to  make  up  in  her  tones  for 
the  inevitable  hardness  of  the  words.  "I  can't  ask 
your  forgiveness  and  I  can't  promise  always  to  be 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  303 

your  obedient  daughter.    I  am  so  sorry  if  I  am  hurt 
ing  you." 

The  Baroness  sighed  deeply.  Possibly  she  ex 
pected  that  her  life  would,  with  effective  tragedy, 
go  out  on  the  wings  of  that  sigh.  But  it  did  nothing 
of  the  sort.  Two  hours  later  the  Baroness  was 
partaking  of  broiled  chicken,  potatoes,  rice  and  com 
pote. 

Gudrun,  accompanied  by  the  Baron  and  Ham- 
merdale,  called  at  the  parsonage  at  one  o'clock,  not 
without  a  certain  amount  of  pomp  and  ostentation; 
for  they  went  in  the  Manor  coach,  not  because  the 
roads  happened  to  be  abominable,  but  because  Gud 
run  wanted  all  the  village  to  know  that  the  Manor- 
house  was  officially  standing  behind  the  unfortunate 
pastor.  The  Baron  protested  mildly,  but  went;  and 
the  call  had  a  wholesome  effect  on  the  perturbed 
minds  of  the  parish.  Adam  felt  the  change  in  the 
greetings  of  the  men  and  women  he  met  on  his  re 
turn  from  a  call  at  a  distant  manor,  and  hurried 
home  to  find  Esperanza  tearfully  happy.  The  Baron, 
carefully  directed  previously  by  Gudrun,  had  cour 
teously  invited  Pastor  Adam  and  herself  to  supper 
that  evening.  And,  since  the  roads  were  so  bad,  he 
had  added,  the  coach  would  call  at  eight.  Adam 
breathed  deeply.  "So,  so,  so,"  he  murmured.  "Is 
it  so,  is  it  so?" 

Esperanza  was  flushed  and  embarrassed  as  she 
and  Adam  laid  off  their  wrappings  and  entered  the 


304  FACES    IN    THE    DAWN 

Manor  living-room.  She  had  seen  the  room  before, 
but  it  always  seemed  surprisingly  splendid  to  her 
eyes,  which  were  unused  even  to  the  modest  luxury 
of  the  Baron's  house.  She  fidgeted  uncomfortably 
in  the  right  sofa-corner,  answering  the  Baron's  po 
lite  queries  monosyllabically  and  casting  her  eyes 
toward  Adam,  who,  she  was  glad  to  note,  did  not 
seem  much  more  at  ease  than  herself.  "You  must 
excuse  my  wife,"  said  the  Baron.  "She  has  been 
quite  ill." 

The  meal  was,  at  first,  a  torture  to  Esperanza, 
but  gradually,  as  she  saw  Adam's  frigidity  thaw  out, 
she,  too,  grew  warm.  The  Baron,  with  keen,  thought 
ful  glance,  regarded  now  Adam,  now  Adam's  wife, 
wondering  at  the  friendship  that  bound  his  splendid 
girl  and  her  excellent  Young  Man  to  this  curiously 
unbeautiful  pair.  And  yet,  as  they  conversed  (Ham- 
merdale,  alone,  sitting  in  happy,  comprehending 
silence)  it  dawned  on  him  that  these  people  whom 
Gudrun  and  Jimmie  had  discovered  were  of  more 
significance  than  he  had  guessed.  He  drew  out  first 
Esperanza,  then  Adam,  until  from  a  word  here  and 
a  word  there,  he  divined  somewhat  of  the  story  of 
that  difficult  ascent  to  the  new  life  that  was  to  be 
theirs. 

"It  cannot  matter  to  us,  Herr  Baron,"  said  Es 
peranza  softly,  "it  cannot  matter  to  us  where  we 
are  sent  to  find  our  new  life.  It  will  be  wherever 
we  go,  for  we  shall  take  it  with  us." 

"But  you  will  not  be  sent  anywhere,"  cried  the 


FACES    IN    THE    DAWN  305 

Baron.  "My  Gudrun  tells  me  that  Wenkendorf  is 
going  to  be  famous  in  the  district  for  its  parson. 
You  are  not  going  away." 

The  pastor  looked  down  at  his  plate,  then  up  and 
straight  into  the  Baron's  eyes.  "Will  they  let  me 
stay?"  he  asked. 

"Indeed  they  will,"  Gudrun  exclaimed.  "And  you 
will  marry  us  on  the  twelfth  of  March." 

The  Baron  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  with  a 
clatter.  "Eh?"  he  cried.  "So  you've  won  over  your 
mother?" 

"No,"  Gudrun  answered  quietly,  adding  with  a 
slow  smile,  "but  I  have  won  over  my  conscience." 

"Potzdonnerwetter!"  ejaculated  the  Baron,  taking 
up  the  bottle  of  golden  Berncastler  Doktor,  "I  drink 
to  rebellion!" 

But  at  that  moment  the  great  door  that  led  to 
the  stair-hall  opened,  and  the  Baroness  appeared. 
She  did  not  look  at  all  ill.  Clad  in  her  costliest 
black  satin,  with  her  most  exquisite  lace  coronet  on 
her  head,  she  came  with  queenly  dignity  into  the 
room.  They  rose  as  one,  Adam  and  Esperanza 
flushed  with  embarrassment,  Gudrun  defiant,  the 
Baron  frightened,  Hammerdale  amused. 

"You  have  guests,  and  you  did  not  wait  for  me?" 
murmured  the  Baroness  reproachfully. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "We  were  drink 
ing  to  rebellion  as  you  interrupted  us,"  said  the 
Baron,  gathering  courage,  and  with  a  touch  of  malice 
in  his  tones.  Clothilde,  he  said  to  himself,  was 


306  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

always  appearing  inopportunely  and  spoiling  the 
fun. 

The  Baroness  gave  him  a  melancholy  glance,  but 
did  not  answer.  In  silence  she  greeted  Adam  and 
Esperanza  with  her  regal  condescension;  and,  in  si 
lence,  sat  down  in  the  chair  Hammerdale  drew  up 
for  her.  "But  why  rebellion?"  she  asked  at  last. 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Then  Gudrun 
spoke.  "We  are  celebrating  an  engagement  to 
night,"  she  explained,  breaking  the  news  in  as  kindly 
tones  as  she  could  command. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad!"  the  Baroness  cried  softly. 
"I  am  so  glad  you  know  your  mind  at  last,  my  Gud 
run.  You  were  so  uncertain.  I  have  suffered  with 
you,  yes,  I  can  truly  say,  I  have  suffered  with  you. 
Come  into  my  arms,  my  children." 

The  Baron  laid  his  napkin  on  the  table,  gazing 
with  open  mouth  at  his  wife.  "Clothilde,  this  is 
too  much " 

"Georg,"  she  answered  tearfully.  "You  do  not 
understand  a  mother's  heart." 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

IN   WHICH,    AS   IN  ALL   GOOD   ROMANCES,   THERE   IS 
MARRYING  AND  GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE 

THREE  weeks  or  so  later  Pastor  Adam,  in  a  new 
black  silk  robe  which  the  Baroness  had  sent  him  for 
the  occasion,  stood  in  the  chancel  of  his  little  stone 
church  gazing  down  the  aisle.  The  pews  were  al 
ready  well  filled  with  guests  and  villagers.  Butcher, 
baker  and  candlestick-maker  were  there:  aunts  in 
damask,  and  uncles  in  gorgeous  uniforms;  Rasch, 
the  ancient  Lear,  who  did  not  seem  so  sorry  to  be 
alive  that  clear  March  morning;  Rind,  who  beamed 
like  the  rising  sun;  Lisbeth,  who  gabbled  surrep 
titiously;  the  one-legged  blacksmith,  the  Manor  ser 
vants;  Esperanza  and  the  children,  of  course,  in  the 
first  pew  and  brilliantly  starched.  Now  the  church- 
door  opened  and  the  Baroness  entered,  tearfully,  on 
the  Baron's  arm;  they  took  their  seats.  At  the  chan 
cel-side  the  organist  pulled  out  a  stop  or  two  and 
began  Bach's  "Air  for  G  string." 

The  organ  was  a  wheezy  instrument  and  the  boy 
who  pumped  behind  the  scenes  was  far  more  inter 
ested  in  the  expected  entrance  of  the  bride  than  in  his 

307 


308  FACES    IN   THE    DAWN 

bellows;  but  the  organist  seemed,  in  curious  fashion, 
to  make  the  old  pipes  sing.  The  church-door  opened 
once  more  and,  leaning  on  Hammerdale's  arm,  Gud- 
run  came.  Adam  watched  her  come,  slowly,  while 
the  music  hung  about  and  above  her,  not  with  the 
measured  ceremoniousness  of  a  march,  but  with  the 
piercing  tenderness  of  the  voices  of  memory,  of 
hopes  and  mercies  and  old  delights,  and  sorrowings 
whose  sting  the  years  have  blunted.  And,  as  Gud- 
run  came,  a  hundred  bolted  gates  seemed  to  open 
in  Adam's  being.  It  seemed  that  ten  years  were 
passing  as  she  walked  slowly  up  the  aisle,  it  seemed 
his  whole  life  was  passing,  and  things  long  past  and 
done  with  came  forth  and  crossed  his  vision  once 
more.  He  saw  his  childhood  again,  his  school 
days,  his  wild  barbarian  youth  of  women  and  wine 
and  sword-play,  his  first  parish,  his  second,  then 
Stromau,  that  had  pursued  him  but  could  not  crush 
him  after  all;  then  Wenkendorf.  He  saw  a  red 
felt  hat  with  cherries  stuck  in  the  band,  and  a  face 
below  it,  all  sky  and  sunlight  and  roses;  he  saw 
Gudrun  the  child,  Gudrun  the  budding  girl,  Gudrun 
the  woman.  Out  of  the  darkness  of  time  she  seemed 
to  be  coming  toward  him,  growing,  expanding,  now 
caught  in  the  snares  of  pain,  now  full  of  laughter, 
coming  toward  him,  a  spirit  of  light  to  be  loved, 
and  to  pass  after  his  ways  had  been  made  straight. 
Slowly  up  the  aisle  Gudrun  came,  an  Amazon  even 
in  white  satin.  Hammerdale's  face  was  deathly  sol 
emn.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  should 


FACES    IN   THE    DAWN  309 

take  the  ordeal  hard.  The  music  ceased,  dying  in 
a  poignant  quiver  that  escaped  like  a  half-remem 
bered  dream.  Adam  caught  his  breath,  and  began 
the  service. 

He  read  slowly  and  more  softly  than  was  his  cus 
tom,  as  though  he  felt  that  the  words  were  for  Gud- 
run  'and  Jimmie  only,  and  would  lose  some  of  their 
sanctity  if  he  spoke  them  as  if  for  the  staring  crowd. 
And,  as  he  read,  he  knew  why  he  had  told  himself 
that  he  must  make  himself  over  before  this  Twelfth 
of  March.  For,  as  he  stood  before  the  kneeling 
figures,  with  a  kind  of  sublime  shock  it  occurred  to 
him  that,  here  in  God's  house,  he  was  not  Adam 
Samuels,  reading  old,  dull  phrases  from  a  book, 
but  a  smoothed  and  chiseled  instrument  through 
which  the  voices  of  heaven  were  blowing  wonders 
of  unimagined  melody.  This  was  the  end  to  which 
he  had  labored.  He  had  cleansed  and  purified  the 
reed  so  that  God's  voice  might  sound  harmoniously 
clear. 

The  reading  ended,  the  rings  were  given  and  re 
ceived,  the  replies  spoken.  Then  quietly,  with  none 
of  his  old  pulpit-thunder  at  all,  Adam  delivered  his 
sermon.  He  made  no  attempt  to  soar;  the  usual 
paraphernalia  of  his  discourses,  his  vines  and  fig- 
trees,  his  deserts  and  his  palms,  he  omitted  entirely. 
He  uttered  the  ancient  homely  truths  unostentatious 
ly  and  friendly-wise,  as  one  to  whom  they  are  new 
because  he  has  to  discover  in  his  own  experience 
how  real  they  are. 


310  FACES    IN   THE   DAWN 

He  closed,  speaking  the  prayer  and  the  benedic 
tion  half  in  a  dream;  and  could  not  speak  at  all  as 
he  shook  the  hands  he  dimly  saw  outstretched.  Gud- 
run  and  Hammerdale  turned  and  walked  slowly 
down  the  aisle.  And,  as  Adam  watched  Gudrun  go, 
he  felt  his  being  fill  with  all  the  wonder  and  grati 
tude  of  humanity  toward  the  angels;  but  as  he  bent 
his  head  and  gazed  unexpectedly  into  the  candid 
eyes  of  Esperanza  he  knew  that  the  shout  and  tug 
in  his  heart  were  for  her. 


'TVHE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  Mac- 
•*•    millan  books  by  the  same  author,  and  new  fiction. 


HERMANN  HAGEDORN'S  POEMS 
Poems  and  Ballads    New  Edition 

Cloth,  ismo.  $1.00  net. 


"We  can  see  from  this  volume  that  Mr.  Hagedorn  is  a  truly 
accomplished  poet  .  .  .  the  poems  are  worth  writing  and  are 
worth  reading,  because  Mr.  Hagedorn  only  writes  what  he 
really  feels,  and  this  volume  will  strike  in  many  a  reader  a 
responsive  chord." — Poetry  Review  (England}. 


"Hermann  Hagedorn's  work  suggests  a  keynote  for  all  future 
poetry." — Alfred  Noyes. 


"...  contains  an  unusual  amount  of  pure  poetry. " 

N.  Y.  Times. 

"He  has  been  able  to  bring  before  us  once  again  in  his  verse 
those  fleeting  aspects  of  beauty  that  mortal  vision  and  mind 
hold,  but  for  an  instant." — Review  of  Reviews. 


"It  is  refreshing  to  find  a  young  writer  who  realizes  that  it 
is  possible  for  a  poet  to  be  sane.  Mr.  Hagedorn  is  not  guilty 
of  erotic  verse  he  neither  dawdles  in  scented  gardens,  nor  beats 
his  breast  beside  some  painted  sea.  His  voice  shows  the 
restraint  of  one  acutely  conscious  of  the  beauty  of  life  as  dis 
tinguished  from  panoramic  show." — Boston  Advertiser. 


"He  has  a  message  as  well  as  style  and  ranks  to-day,  slender 
though  his  output  has  been  as  yet,  among  the  foremost  of  Ameri 
can  poets. " — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 


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The  Wife  of  Sir  Isaac  Harman 

By  H.  G.  WELLS. 

Cloth,  izmo.     $1*50  net: 

The  name  of  H.  G.  Wells  upon  a  title  page  is  an  assurance 
of  merit.  It  is  a  guarantee  that  on  the  pages  which  follow 
will  be  found  an  absorbing  story  told  with  master  skill.  In  the 
present  book  Mr.  Wells  surpasses  even  his  previous  efforts. 
He  is  writing  of  modern  society  life,  particularly  of  one  very 
charming  young  woman,  Lady  Harman,  who  finds  herself  so 
bound  in  by  conventions,  so  hampered  by  restrictions,  largely 
those  of  a  well  intentioned  but  short  sighted  husband,  that  she 
is  ultimately  moved  to  revolt.  The  real  meaning  of  this  revolt, 
its  effect  upon  her  life  and  those  of  her  associates  are  narrated 
by  one  who  goes  beneath  the  surface  in  his  analysis  of  human 
motives.  In  the  group  of  characters,  writers,  suffragists,  labor 
organizers,  social  workers  and  society  lights  surrounding  Lady 
Harman,  and  in  the  dramatic  incidents  which  compose  the  years 
of  her  existence  which  are  described  by  Mr.  Wells,  there  is  a 
novel  which  is  significant  in  its  interpretation  of  the  trend  of 
affairs  today,  and  fascinatingly  interesting  as  fiction.  It  is 
Mr.  Wells  at  his  best. 


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The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore 

By  JACK  LONDON,  Author  of  "The  Sea  Wolf," 
"The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  etc. 

With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  Anton  Fischer. 

Cloth,  I2tno.     $1.35  net. 


Everyone  who  remembers  The  Sea  Wolf  with  pleasure  will 
enjoy  this  vigorous  narrative  of  a  voyage  from  New  York 
around  Cape  Horn  in  a  large  sailing  vessel.  The  Mutiny  of  the 
Elsinore  is  the  same  kind  of  tale  as  its  famous  predecessor,  and 
by  those  who  have  read  it,  it  is  pronounced  even  more  stirring. 
Mr.  London  is  here  writing  of  scenes  and  types  of  people  with 
which  he  is  very  familiar,  the  sea  and  ships  and  those  who  live 
in  ships.  In  addition  to  the  adventure  element,  of  which  there 
is  an  abundance  of  the  usual  London  kind,  a  most  satisfying  kind 
it  is,  too,  there  is  a  thread  of  romance  involving  a  wealthy,  tired 
young  man  who  takes  the  trip  on  the  Elsinore,  and  the  captain's 
daughter.  The  play  of  incident,  on  the  one  hand  the  ship's 
amazing  crew  and  on  the  other  the  lovers,  gives  a  story  in  which 
the  interest  never  lags  and  which  demonstrates  anew  what  a 
master  of  his  art  Mr.  London  is. 


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Saturday's  Child 


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11  Friday's  child  is  loving  and  giving, 
Saturday's  child  must  work  for  her  living. " 

The  title  of  Mrs.  Norris's  new  novel  at  once  indicates  its 
theme.  It  is  the  life  story  of  a  girl  who  has  her  own  way  to  make 
in  the  world.  The  various  experiences  through  which  she  passes, 
the  various  viewpoints  which  she  holds  until  she  comes  finally 
to  realize  that  service  for  others  is  the  only  thing  that  counts, 
are  told  with  that  same  intimate  knowledge  of  character,  that 
healthy  optimism  and  the  belief  in  the  ultimate  goodness  of 
mankind  that  have  distinguished  all  of  this  author's  writing. 
The  book  is  intensely  alive  with  human  emotions.  The  reader 
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seem  like  real  people  and  because  they  are  actuated  by  motives 
which  one  is  able  to  understand.  Saturday's  Child  is  Mrs.  Nor 
ris's  longest  work.  Into  it  has  gone  the  very  best  of  her  crea 
tive  talent.  It  is  a  volume  which  the  many  admirers  of  Mother 
will  gladly  accept. 

Neighborhood  Stories 

By  ZONA  GALE,  Author  of  "Friendship  Village/' 
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In  Neighborhood  Stories  Miss  Gale  has  a  book  after  her  own 
heart,  a  book  which,  with  its  intimate  stories  of  real  folks,  is 
not  unlike  Friendship  Village.  Miss  Gale  has  humor;  she  has 
lightness  of  touch;  she  has,  above  all,  a  keen  appreciation  of 
human  nature.  These  qualities  are  reflected  in  the  new  volume. 
Miss  Gale's  audience,  moreover,  is  a  constantly  increasing  one. 
To  it  her  beautiful  little  holiday  novel,  Christmas,  added  many 
admirers.  Neighborhood  Stories  will  not  only  keep  these,  but 
is  certain  to  attract  many  more  as  well. 


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Fire,"  "The  Return  of  the  Prodigal,"  etc. 

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Every  reader  of  The  Divine  Fire,  in  fact  every  reader  of  any 
of  Miss  Sinclair's  books,  will  at  once  accord  her  unlimited  praise 
for  her  character  work.  The  Three  Sisters  reveals  her  at  her 
best.  It  is  a  story  of  temperament,  made  evident  not  through 
tiresome  analyses  but  by  means  of  a  series  of  dramatic  incidents. 
The  sisters  of  the  title  represent  three  distinct  types  of  woman 
kind.  In  their  reaction  under  certain  conditions  Miss  Sinclair 
is  not  only  telling  a  story  of  tremendous  interest  but  she  is 
really  showing  a  cross  section  of  life. 


The  Rise  of  Jennie  Gushing 

By  MARY    S.    WATTS,    Author    of    "Nathan 
Burke,"  "Van  Cleve,"  etc. 

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In  Nathan  Burke  Mrs.  Watts  told  with  great  power  the  story 
of  a  man.  In  this,  her  new  book,  she  does  much  the  same  thing 
for  a  woman.  Jennie  Gushing  is  an  exceedingly  interesting 
character,  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  any  that  Mrs.  Watts 
has  yet  given  us.  The  novel  is  her  life  and  little  else,  but  that 
is  a  life  filled  with  a  variety  of  experiences  and  touching  closely 
many  different  strata  of  humankind.  Throughout  it  all,  from 
the  days  when  as  a  thirteen-year-old,  homeless,  friendless  waif, 
Jennie  is  sent  to  a  reformatory,  to  the  days  when  her  beauty  is 
the  inspiration  of  a  successful  painter,  there  is  in  the  narrative 
an  appeal  to  the  emotions,  to  the  sympathy,  to  the  affections, 
that  cannot  be  gainsaid. 


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